


the shortest distance between two points is a line from me to you

by Cunninglinguist



Category: 1917 (Movie 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Banter, Bars and Pubs, Blood and Gore, Bodily Fluids, Body Worship, Coming Out, Domestic, Dreams and Nightmares, Drinking, First Time, Fix-It, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, Gay Sex, Getting Together, Graphic Description, Hair-pulling, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Injury, Internalized Homophobia, Jealousy, Kissing, Light Angst, Living Together, Love Confessions, M/M, Masturbation, Moving In Together, Mutual Pining, Nightmares, Non-fatal Stabbing, Oral Sex, Period Typical Attitudes, Pining, Porn with Feelings, Post-Canon Fix-It, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-World War I, Rimming, Shameless Smut, Sharing a Bed, Sharing a Room, Slow Burn, Tattoos, Tom Blake Lives, Violence, Will Schofield POV, William Schofield's Family, William Schofield's Sister, idiots to lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-05
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:13:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 34,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23030749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cunninglinguist/pseuds/Cunninglinguist
Summary: In which Tom Blake survives his injury and decides to move in with Will above his family's pub after the war. They find themselves growing closer and closer each day as they deal with the joys and the sorrows of forging new lives after the war.Alternatively: an entirely self-indulgent fix-it fic.
Relationships: Tom Blake & William Schofield, Tom Blake/William Schofield
Comments: 149
Kudos: 328





	1. Prologue

1917 

_27 April 1917_

_Dear Sco,_

_I hope this letter finds you in good health. Thought you might like to know that I am doing well, or at least better than I was—all thanks to you. I arrived at the hospital in the nick of time, they tell me, and they were able to perform the necessary surgeries to cobble me back together (but I’ll spare you the gruesome bits). It was very difficult at first, still is, if I’m honest (I still can’t quite walk on my own yet, even sitting up and standing can be taxing, depending on the day), but I’m getting there. Maybe by the time you’re reading this I’ll at least be hobbling about a bit._

_They’re doing a fine job caring for me, especially when you take into account how overrun they are (the state of this place leaves much to be desired), but I absolutely cannot wait to get the hell out of here. I’m sure you’re already doing this, but just in case you need a reminder: make every attempt to avoid abdominal wounds at all costs. They’re absolutely dreadful. I don’t recommend them._

_All humour aside, I’m writing to thank you for looking out for me when I needed it the most. If you hadn’t been there to help me control the bleeding, and to force me to the aid post (despite my numerous protests, sorry about that), I don’t think I would have made it. I don’t know how I’ll ever be able to repay you. I’ll try to think of something by the time you get out._

_How are you faring? How’s that gorgeous French countryside treating you?_

_All my best,_

_Tom Blake_

Will reads the letter once. He reads it again. And again. And once more. He reads it until the words blur together and become meaningless, committing every loop and stroke of Blake’s unruly scrawl to memory as disbelief and giddiness overtake him in equal measure. 

Blake is _alive._ He’d made it out, he’d gotten home safely, and the doctors had been able to save him. Blake is going to recover. He is going to live.

With a shaky exhale, he presses the letter to his lips. He’d spent the past month in mourning, stroking his fingers over the lone gold ring in his pocket on many a long and sleepless night as the deep crack in his heart split apart and hemorrhaged. He’d replayed his interactions with Blake’s brother in the theater of his mind like a mantra, written and rewritten letters to Blake’s mum until his eyes crossed, never quite mustering the strength to send them. He’d prepared for the worst, like recent history has taught him to do, and given up all hope of learning what had happened to Blake. 

Now he’s holding this letter in his hand, a spectral harbinger, and the walls he’d so carefully constructed are crumbling around him like the ashes of a phoenix. Tears spring to his eyes. He lets out a laugh as his chest swells with unfamiliar hope, and a _yearning_ in which he’d only ever permitted himself indulgence during the darkest, quietest hours of the night.

“Good news from home, Lance Corporal?” One of the new recruits is staring up at Will with wistful eyes, his dirty fest clenching around letters that he hasn’t yet received.

“Yes. Er, pardon me.” Will all but runs past him, out of the tent, chest heaving as he makes a beeline for the tree furthest from where the men are basking in the sun and sleeping and making light of their circumstances as best they can. Once he’s positioned himself away from them, he sinks down, grateful for the support at his back, and pulls out Blake’s letter to read it again. And again. And again. 

His hands tremble as he digs into his jacket for a scrap of stationery. 

_3 May 1917_

_Dear Blake,_

_It is very good to hear from you. I am very glad that you’re on the mend. Incidentally, I had to make my own foray to the hospital (tent) not long after you, but I managed to make it out with little more than some stitches in my hand and in my head. I feel very lucky to say that now I am good as new._

_Please don’t feel indebted to me, I know you would have done the same thing in my place. It is a lot quieter around here without your incessant chattering, so you can repay me by recovering quickly so you can return to us with your shiny new stripe and talk our ears off about the intricacies of various walnut trees and whatnot._

_And France is France, haven’t you heard there’s a war on? (I am well. Looking forward to my leave coming up, I’ve got a week off to visit my sister and her new baby.)_

_Sincerely,_

_Lance Corporal William Schofield_

_PS- The fine lads of the 8th send their regards._

Will reads what he’s written, balking at the overuse of _very_ and the attempts at humour, but he knows it’ll make Blake laugh. 

He folds his letter crisply and presses it to his heart. He allows a few tears to fall before composing himself and striding through camp to the mail. If anyone notices the extra spring in his step, they don’t mention it. 

****** 

“Blake? Yes, he’s just there. Let me take you to him.” 

Will is all but shaking with nerves as he follows the short nurse down an aisle of hospital beds, all crowded against one another. All full. This is the nature of war, he thinks bitterly: full hospitals and fuller graveyards. It’s certainly the _smell_ of war. He wrinkles his nose at the heavy-hanging stench of sickness, overlaying a strong antiseptic. He’s been out of the trenches long enough to actually notice these things. 

It’s nice to feel something normal, he supposes. 

“Here we are.” The nurse stops. Will’s heart nearly gives out at the sight of Blake dozing in his hospital bed. He’s pale and slightly damp with sweat, but he’s alive. Despite the fact that Joe Blake had told Will where his brother was staying, despite the letters that they had exchanged, Will somehow couldn’t wrap his mind around the truth of Blake’s survival until now, this moment, when he comes face to face with it. 

His knees buckle a bit, so he finds stability in the rickety bedside chair that the nurse has just dragged over. He scoots close, splaying his palms on the threadbare blanket, close enough to feel the warmth from Blake’s body. He stares at the way Blake’s chest rises and falls, overwhelmed as something warm unspools deep within his own chest, a call and response with each easy breath. 

“Sco?” 

Blake blinks up at him owlishly, wiping the sleep from his eyes. 

Will quickly draws his hands into his lap. “Hey, Blake. How’re you doing?” 

“Better than I was.” 

“That’s good.” A bit hysterically, Will realizes a lump has formed in his throat. He chokes it down, masking it with a cough and a gentle smile. “You’ll be back in the thick of things with a new stripe in no time.” 

“Hmm, doctor says that isn’t likely. Says I’m probably on track for discharge at this rate.” Blake returns the smile, tired. “What, no sweets? No flowers?” 

Will huffs a laugh through his nose. “You would expect that, wouldn’t you.” He gestures to the two vases of tea roses in various stages of wilt crammed atop the bedside table. “Admirers?” 

“Oh yes, I'm quite popular with the ladies these days.” Will nods sincerely, and Blake rolls his eyes. “Please. They’re from my mum and aunt, Sco. This injury hasn’t exactly afforded me the opportunity to become a Casanova.” 

Will lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “Ah. Right.” 

“So when are you out?” 

“When they tell me I’m out.” 

“That’s a pity. I was hoping this whole thing was finally coming to an end.” 

“That would be lovely.” Will glances around the room, hating how the groans of the sick and injured have already faded into the background. In the trenches, there’s a constant din of anguished voices, that ever-present smell of gunpowder and death, providing a horrific multi-sensory backdrop to an even more horrific tableau of war and boredom and fear. 

“Have you got a picture of the new baby?” Blake’s voice pulls Will out of his head, back into the present. 

“As a matter of fact…” Will reaches into his jacket and fishes out the photograph, which, despite the care he’d taken, was already crumpling up around the edges. Blake shifts and leans over to see better, and grunts in pain. Always the over-eager idiot. 

“Keep your shirt on, I’ll bring it there.” Will stands so he can crouch over the bed, tipping the photo so Blake can see. He’s close enough to smell Blake’s hair. “There he is. Robert Marcus. Robert after his father, Marcus after ours.” 

“A right handsome lad.” Blake stares dreamily, a far-away smile playing about his chapped lips. It _is_ a fantastic photo, taken during a rare moment of stillness when little Robbie was simultaneously awake and not wailing his tiny lungs out. He’d looked directly at the camera and smiled. Will’s sister Charlotte hadn’t been able to believe that it came out the way that it had. 

Blake looks up at Will with a broad smile. “Congratulations, Uncle Sco.” 

“Thanks. Robbie’s Charlotte’s third, her first boy.” 

“Well you have some catching up to do, haven’t you?” 

“You’re certainly not the first to tell me that.” Will’s face flushes as he tucks the photo away and takes his seat. “How’s your family? Your mother, Joe?” 

“Joe’s good, you know, as good as can be. Mum’s worried, like she always is, but she’s got the dogs, the orchard. My aunt’s all but moved in with her, which is good. Long overdue, if you ask me.” 

“That’s good.” 

“Quite. She’ll have me back soon, too, I think. If everything goes the way they think it will with this.” He gestures to his abdomen with a grimace. “God, I can’t wait to get out of here. So crowded and noisy, I can barely get a wink of shuteye.” 

“Well look at that, just like France.” 

Blake laughs a little and closes his eyes. They don’t speak for some time, and Will’s wondering if Blake hasn’t dozed off again when he clears his throat. “So, a week off, then?” 

“Yeah. Surprised I got that much.” 

“You earned it. Anything else going on, aside from your gorgeous baby nephew?” 

“Nothing of particular note.” Will shrugs. “Had some drinks in my brother-in-law’s pub, which was lovely. Can’t fight, bum leg. But he’s fixing the flat above the pub so I can have my own space if I come back. Or, you know. He’ll rent it out if I don’t.” 

“Don’t talk like that. If nothing’s taken down Lance Corporal William Schofield yet, nothing will.” Blake gently rests his hand next to Will’s, just for a second, and pulls away. “Plus now you’ve got a perfectly lovely little room of your own to return to, so you can take that with you. To keep you going during those dire hours.” 

_But I’ve already got something to keep me going during all hours, dire or not._

“Anyway, I can’t believe you actually chose to spend a day of leave at the hospital.” Blake wrinkles his nose and surveys the crowded room. “You’ve got a weird idea of fun, mate.” 

Will doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t know what to say, and if he did, he’s not sure he’d know how to say it. He doesn’t think visiting one’s former brother in arms in the hospital is a conventional thing to do on leave, but he didn’t know how else to appease the gnawing curiosity in his gut every time he rereads Blake’s letter, the burning, almost unbearable urge to see for himself, to _know._

And it’s not like he hasn’t heard about the bonds that develop between brothers in arms that transcend friendship. He thinks that’s what he has with Blake. They were drawn to each other the moment they met, fitting into each other’s spaces, trusting one another far more easily than they trusted others. Isn’t there something to be said for that, for a deeper bond? 

Besides, it’s not like...it’s not like it’s a romantic thing. Will’s face heats at the thought. He knows about the bonds between civilian men that transcend friendship, too. They’re hardly common, and most men wouldn’t spare such a thing a thought, but Will has known quietly, deep down, that he’s not like _most men_ for a long time now. 

In any case, Will’s certain that he has a deeper bond with Blake because of everything that they experienced together, and that’s that, and no one can fault him for wanting to check up on his mate who he’d just recently learned was still alive after a harrowing encounter with a German pilot. 

“Pfft. So serious. I’m just taking the piss, Sco. But it’s nice to see that you’ve still got no sense of humour.” Blake coughs out a laugh, wincing a bit, and reaches for the cup of water on the bedside table. 

Will stays his arm with a gentle hand and passes it over without thinking. 

Their fingers touch on the glass. Their gazes meet. Blake smiles with his eyes and for one long, bittersweet moment, Will can barely remember how to breathe. 

Then Blake downs the water and smacks his lips, and it’s over. “Thanks.” 

“Don’t mention it.” Will puts the empty glass back on the nightstand. He looks pointedly at the wall just next to Blake’s head. Paint’s chipping. Probably has been for some time. 

“So when do you ship out again?” 

“Thursday.” 

“Wish I was coming, too.” Blake grins as Will raises an incredulous eyebrow. “Who else is gonna keep you out of trouble?” 

Will snorts, shaking his head. He would say something like that. And sure, it would be fantastic to have company in the thick of things. He always felt better, safer, when Blake was there, but Christ, if he wasn’t beyond grateful that Blake would be staying behind. Staying safe, healing. Going home to recuperate with his mum and aunt and the new puppies, who were probably not so new anymore. Slowly working up the strength to tend to the orchard, laughing and joking and telling ridiculous stories like he was meant to do. 

And at least now Will could carry on with the absolute certainty that his efforts to save Blake had been a success. He could finally stop wondering what had happened, finally stop waking up in a cold sweat, phantom viscera slicking his hands. 

Blake is here. Alive. Safe. 

If that is the best thing that Will does during the war, he’ll be proud. 

“Well,” says Blake, settling against his pillow with a wry smile. “At least I can write you. Make sure you don’t die of boredom. Only if you’d like, of course.” 

He looks a bit bashful, then, like he’s just said something embarrassing, which has the most endearing effect on his rosy cheeks. The warmth in Will’s chest blooms even bigger, spreading through his body, and he is momentarily overcome by the urge to lean in and pull him close. 

Instead, he chuckles, unable to look directly at Blake when he replies, “I think you’d be making sure that _you_ don’t die of boredom. But yeah. I’d like that. You can write.” 

Blake’s face lights up, and Will’s lips twitch up into a half smile. They sit together as the sun descends in the sky, bleeding molten gold into the noisy, cramped hospital room. Even though this might very well be the last time they see one another in person, Will can’t remember the last time he felt so content. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi 1917 ruined my life!!! I could no longer deal with drowning in my own angst, so I wrote this fix-it in four feverish sittings, and am now in the process of editing it & breaking it into chapters (I'm not 100% sure how many chapters there will be, which is why I've left it as ?).
> 
> I will be updating this every Friday until it's all posted. Whew! 
> 
> Some content notes: This is the only chapter that will take place in 1917, the rest will be post-war. I've rated it as E for reasons that will become apparent in later chapters. I will also be updating the tags as I go, & if necessary, leaving chapter-specific warnings in the notes. 
> 
> Fic title taken from the lyrics of this beautiful [song,](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eHFx11tUO1M) which I had on repeat p much the entire time I wrote this. 
> 
> Come say hi on [Tumblr dot com](http://hannibalssweaters.tumblr.com/), if you're into that.
> 
> If you enjoyed this, please validate my aching soul with a comment (and a kudo if you can spare it!).


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Are you sure about this?”_
> 
> _Will stops fidgeting with the squeaky window and looks at Blake. It’s almost comical, how uncertain he looks, eyes round as saucers as he stands amidst the sparsely furnished flat, duffle bag still clutched in his right fist, typewriter case in his left._
> 
> _“And if I said no, I’ve changed my mind?”_
> 
> _“Well, er. That would be your prerogative. My mum wouldn’t mind having me back for good, of course. In fact, she’d prefer it, and it’s not like it would be impossible to find another job closer to--”_
> 
> _Will gives him a pointed look and raises an eyebrow._
> 
> _Blake relaxes visibly. “Bastard.”_
> 
> _“Go on, set your things down, stay a while.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since you were all so excited about the first chapter and so very lovely and generous with your feedback, I went ahead and posted the next chapter early!
> 
> Some content warnings: small time jump to 1919, unapologetically self-indulgent domesticity and mutual pining, PTSD, nightmares, flashbacks to violence, original characters, kids, gratuitous footage of Uncle Sco, tattoos

1919

“Are you sure about this?” 

Will stops fidgeting with the squeaky window and looks at Blake. It’s almost comical, how uncertain he looks, eyes round as saucers as he stands amidst the sparsely furnished flat, duffle bag still clutched in his right fist, typewriter case in his left.

“And if I said no, I’ve changed my mind?”

“Well, er. That would be your prerogative. My mum wouldn’t mind having me back for good, of course. In fact, she’d prefer it, and it’s not like it would be impossible to find another job closer to--”

Will gives him a pointed look and raises an eyebrow. 

Blake relaxes visibly. “Bastard.” 

“Go on, set your things down, stay a while.” Will shakes his head and returns to the window. Hmm. He’ll have to work out the squeak in that hinge at some point, but other than that, everything seems to be in working order. It’s turned out better than he expected, and much nicer, considering that no one had occupied it since Charlotte and Robert when they were first married. But that was long ago, before they’d had the girls, when Will’s mum was still alive. Before everything had changed.

“Was awful nice of your brother-in-law to fix the place up.” Blake yanks a tarp off of the sunken sofa, eyeing it disdainfully. “Although this here might not be much longer for this world.”

“It was nice. He had new plumbing installed, too.”

“Ah! Lap of luxury, that,” says Blake, peering into the little bathroom. He wanders over to the credenza and picks up a dusty picture frame. Will watches his face as he studies it, catching the dimpling of his cheeks as he fights a full-on grin. “So, this little girl must be Charlotte, which means that this tiny chap is you?”

Will descends from his ladder with a beleaguered groan and makes his way across the room. He leans in close enough to get a whiff of Blake’s cologne as he maneuvers the picture into his line of sight. It’s him, around two, grinning and all gussied up in his Sunday best, holding his favorite stuffed bear. “That’s me alright.”

“Cute as a button, you were.”

“I know. What the hell happened?” 

“Ha, right.” Blake chuckles softly and sets the photo down, cheeks pinkening. Will pats Blake on the shoulder and busies himself with the luggage, biting the insides of his cheeks to ground himself in reality. 

It’s more than a bit surreal that this is actually happening, that Blake is _actually_ here, in his flat. Though he supposes it’s been a long time coming. For years now, Blake had been hemming and hawing over wanting a change in pace, a new job to keep him busy, especially since he’d gotten so good with the typewriter. And it wasn’t like there were many jobs requiring that specific skill set near the farm, so perhaps it would make more sense to inquire elsewhere, and so on and so forth. 

Will had helpfully suggested that Blake come visit him in Cookham, as folks were always looking for typists and secretaries these days. Blake had jumped at the chance, and Will had the distinct pleasure of watching his best mate in the world spend two lovely days falling in love with the place where he grew up. Will had introduced him to his sister and some of the locals down the pub. After a bit of tourism, Blake had talked employment with three different places, including the mayor’s office, who had ultimately ended up offering him the post.

Blake thinks the hiring had to do with this mayor’s reverence for veterans. Will knows it’s because Blake is more than capable, and, of course, the most affable man he knows.

Now, here they are, settling into the flat above his family’s pub, and Blake is pacing between the kitchen and the parlor, talking about how much he’s looking forward to starting a new routine. Will doesn’t say that he knows the busy streets and consistent work hours will surely be a welcome change from the deafening silence and maddening stillness of the countryside. He doesn’t say that he’s so grateful for Blake to have agreed to this in the first place, or that his presence would be quelling the overwhelming loneliness that came from surrounding oneself with loved ones who couldn’t even begin to comprehend everything that one had seen and done...during. Will doesn’t say that he’s been putting off moving off of Charlotte’s sofa for as long as possible to avoid living alone. 

He doesn’t say that the sight of Blake puttering about in the home that they now share makes him so happy that he could just about shout it from the rooftops, or that he has to actively keep his heart from bursting in his chest every ten seconds.

Instead, Will says, “You’ll adjust before you know it.”

“I’m sure.” Blake swipes his finger over the fireplace mantle, pulling a face when it comes up covered in thick grey dust. “Looks like we’ve got our work cut out for us still.”

Will grimaces. “I meant to get it sorted before you arrived, but it’s been so busy at the pub, with everything.”

“No bother, it doesn’t look like it’ll take long.”

And it doesn’t, not with the two of them. Once they unpack, Blake makes the floors his mission. He sweeps thoroughly, then gathers buckets of water and rags. Will abandons the squeaky window to dust the cupboards out and scrub the bathroom until it practically sparkles before moving into the bedroom. He’s never minded cleaning. In fact, he’s always found it to be oddly relaxing. Something to do with the repetition and clear purpose of each task, he supposes. Judging by the measured way Blake wrings out his rags, scrubbing diligently until the wooden floor changes shades completely, he probably feels the same way. 

Once he finishes making up the beds and putting his things away, Will heads into the kitchen to check on Blake and put on some tea. 

And just barely manages not to trip over his own two feet. 

Blake is on all-fours on the floor, a bucket of questionably-tinged water by his side. His sleeves are rolled to his elbows, brow furrowed as he furiously rubs at a spot near the sink. Will’s eyes are speeding ahead of his rational mind, cataloguing the sight of Blake’s back muscles moving beneath the thin fabric of his shirt, the way his full rear strains the seams of his trousers, the sweat darkening the fabric at his armpits, the slightly labored sound of his breath, the veins bulging in his strong, bare forearms. 

Blake relents with a sigh. He sits up on his knees and plops the rag into the bucket, then turns with a start. “Jesus Christ, Sco! What are you doing, sneaking up on people like that? Trying to give me a bloody heart attack?”

“Sorry.” Will’s voice cracks as he carefully steps around his new flatmate, trying in vain to shoo away the cluster of decidedly inappropriate thoughts clouding his brain. “Would you like a cuppa?”

“Yes, please.”

“Alright. As you were, soldier.”

Blake rolls his eyes and gets back to it. As Will busies himself with the kettle, he wonders if this hyper-awareness of Blake’s every movement will ever fade into the background. Of course it won’t--since they met, there has never been a time when he hasn’t been preoccupied with Blake. If anything, it’ll probably heighten tenfold, now that he is literally living here with him. Sharing the living space, the kitchen, the bathroom, the _bedroom._

_Good lord._

Try as he might to think about something else--the tea, tomorrow’s shift at the pub, the nice dark blue shirt that Robbie had vomited on yesterday, _literally_ anything else--he finds it damn near impossible to _not_ watch out of the corner of his eye as Blake stretches his arms overhead with a little grunt of effort. His shirt has come untucked at some point, and rides up just a bit to expose a pale sliver of belly, a revelation that almost costs Will two teacups and their accompanying saucers. 

A rapping at the door pulls Will from his reverie. 

“I’ll get it!” Blake scrambles to his feet, narrowly escaping an unfortunate detour through soapy water on the way. He flings open the door like he’s lived there for years to reveal a frazzled woman with wild, deep auburn curls and all the _good_ Schofield genes, in Will’s opinion. She’s flanked by two small girls, with a baby on one hip and a hefty sack on the other. “Hallo, Charlotte! Do come in. Please, let me take that from you.”

“Thank you!” Charlotte thrusts the bag into Blake’s waiting arms and groans, shifting Robbie to her opposite hip. She embraces Blake like an old friend, smacking light, coral-lipsticked kisses to both of his cheeks. “Hello, Tom. So delighted that you made it. This here is Robbie--yes, say hello to Tom, Robbie--and you’ve not met Mary and Gemma.”

Blake smiles and makes a little face at Robbie, before crouching down to introduce himself to the girls. Will’s heart swells at the sight. He knew they’d get along just fine, but to witness it all unfold so naturally brings him a deep-seated comfort he’s not sure he’s ever known previously.

“Uncle Will!” Will finds himself nearly bowled over by his nieces, hugging him round the waist with the ferocity of two girls who hadn’t just seen him that morning. 

“Please don’t leave us, Uncle,” cries Mary, the oldest one, her bright blue eyes shining. 

“We’ll be ever so bored,” adds Gemma, burying her face in his stomach. 

“Come, now, ladies.” Will pats their heads gently. “I’m just here, just down the road; you’ll still see me all the time. We can play whenever you like.”

“But it won’t be the same!” Gemma tips her head back and makes a whiny, frustrated noise. Will looks up and shakes his head at Blake. He smiles softly, and quickly averts his eyes.

“Despite what it looks like, we haven’t come round to chastise you for moving out. Girls, please come mind your brother.” Charlotte dodges the girls on their way out of the kitchen and wraps Will in a hug. “Hello dearest brother, it’s been an age.”

“I knew you’d miss me.” He pulls a third teacup out of the cupboard and holds it up to her. She nods. 

“Thanks. And of course we’ll miss you, but I’m glad you’re finally settling in here.” She starts pulling things from the sack she’d brought: onions, tomatoes, apples, fresh eggs. “Just came by to bring you a couple little treats from market and invite the both of you to dinner tonight. I’ve put a chicken in.”

“Sounds lovely,” says Blake, and Will agrees. 

“God, it’s so dark in here.” She brushes past Will and flings open the window above the sink, sighing as sunlight spills into the place. “That’s better. A couple of vampires, you are.”

She pauses, staring at the window sill, painted a now-peeling light blue. “Know what would go nicely here? A little herb garden.”

Will nods thoughtfully. “I haven’t really given much consideration to gardens and decor, seeing as we’ve only just got here, but yes, I think you’re right.”

“Well that’s what I’m here for, isn’t it, silly.” 

Charlotte stays for tea. Will finds a rug rolled up in the closet and lays it on the floor so the children won’t scuff their knees as Charlotte asks Blake about his day, if he’s excited for the new job, and has he been to the pub yet. 

“Not yet, not today,” laughs Blake. “It’s early yet.” 

“I’ll take him for a drink on the way to yours,” says Will from the floor, where Robbie is lying on his chest, fast asleep.

“So long as you’re not late.” Charlotte checks the clock on the wall and sighs. “Alright, I’ll be needing to get this lot home. We’ll see you at half six?”

“Half six it is.” Will maneuvers Robbie so that he doesn’t wake as Charlotte takes him, and they’re gone in a whirlwind of hugs and kisses.

Later, when the cleaning is done, the food stored, and they’re both unpacked and getting ready for dinner, Blake says, seemingly out of nowhere, “You’re very good with them.”

“Sorry?”

“Charlotte’s children. You’re very good with them.” Blake emerges from the bathroom in a crisp white shirt and grey herringbone slacks, dark hair brushed back, devoid of all traces of their earlier cleaning efforts. Will swallows the gasp that rises in him, unbidden. He’s never seen Blake all cleaned up like this, in such a fashionable, flattering outfit.

Will lowers his eyes. He mustn’t stare. “Ah. Yes, they’re wonderful, aren’t they?”

“They are. I know you’re probably sick of hearing it, but it really is a bit shocking that you haven’t got some of your own, now that I’ve seen you with hers.” 

Something twists in Will’s gut. He rubs the back of his neck. “It can’t be that shocking, then, seeing as Robbie and the little ladies keep me occupied well enough. They all have quite big personalities, but it’s not surprising, judging by their parents.”

“No, Charlotte certainly got enough wit and gabbiness for the both of you. And I’m looking forward to meeting Robert. Sort of feels like I already know him, after everything you’ve told me.” Blake pulls a black jacket from the closet. “Do I look good?”

“What?” _Oh, the clothing._ “Yes, fine.”

Blake pulls a face and bows theatrically. “Why thank you, sir. I purchased some fancy new duds in preparation for this fancy new job, can’t show up to the bloody mayor’s office looking like riff-raff.”

“Oh come on, they knew who they were hiring.” 

“Hey now, alright,” laughs Blake, giving Will’s shoulders a playful squeeze. He grabs his cane, the one he brings on longer walks, though he sometimes doesn’t use it. “I might be riff-raff, but I’m riff-raff coming highly recommended by you, you know, so, your reputation’s at stake here as well.”

Will shakes his head and follows Blake out the door. 

Dinner goes well enough that Charlotte and Robert invite them back every night that week. Finally, they agree on a standing dinner invitation for every Thursday, and if they sneak one or two more in along the way, then that’s just fine. Robert takes to Blake immediately, surprising no one but Blake himself, and, of course, the children already adore him. It’s endearing, and Will finds himself reflecting gratefully on the fact that he is fortunate enough to return to civvie life and his dearest family alongside someone whose lived experiences are so incredibly similar to his own. Not that they speak of it often, or really, ever, but it’s comforting to think that, were he of the mind to speak about the War, Blake would understand. 

He wonders if that visceral understanding, that similarity between them is the reason for all of his intrusive thoughts about Blake, including the overwhelming pang of longing in his chest as he watches Blake bounce his nephew on his knee one night, until little Robbie dissolves in a fit of giggles. He promptly spits up all over Blake’s shirt, which Blake meets with a comically shocked face followed immediately by peals of infectious laughter. 

It must be, he tells himself as they walk home together, close enough for their arms to brush together every few steps. It’s the shared grief and shock of the war, he thinks as he watches Blake wash his face out of the corner of his eye, identity tags hanging from his neck. 

Blake catches his eye in the mirror. 

“You still wear your ID tags,” says Will by way of explanation. “Why?”

Blake’s jaw clenches and his big, bright eyes cloud over, giving him a haunted wisdom well beyond his years. After a long moment, he says, “They help me move forward...by reminding me of what’s behind me.”

Will nods, eyes fluttering shut as Blake’s words hit him straight in the gut, the heart. His own tags are buried in the drawer where he keeps his socks, shoved in a far corner well out of sight. “I see.”

Blake gives him a tight half smile in response. 

Sleep’s been hard since Will returned. Uninterrupted, real sleep, that is. But that night, after spending a long time lying awake, listening to the sound of Blake’s shallow breathing, Will slips into a peaceful nothingness. Unfortunately, it’s short lived, evaporating like mist to give way to the dark things hidden in the deepest pockets of Will’s mind, the places where he’s stuffed the worst of it away, hoping that if he doesn’t examine it or think about it for too long, perhaps one day he’ll forget. 

The sound of gunfire, the feeling of a bullet ricocheting off his helmet. The stench of decay surrounding the omnipresence of death. Mud caking the backs of his trousers, dust blinding him, filling up his mouth like he’s being buried alive, and it’s crushing him, crushing him, like he crushes a man’s windpipe beneath his bare hands. He’s screaming, and screaming, but nothing comes out. 

The distinct scent of blood hits him harder than opium smoke. He looks down. He sees himself, clutching Blake in his arms, their fingers laced together as the light in Blake’s eyes dies. No, _no,_ that’s not how it happened. He cries out, heart in his mouth. A tear trickles down his face and splashes onto Blake, who doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe, and Will reaches out to shake him awake. 

“Sco.” 

Blake’s voice is distant. Will can’t get to him, so he calls out his name. He doesn’t wake, doesn’t stir, young face as grey as a winter dawn, lips parted. 

_”Sco.”_

Will sits up, hard, blood rushing in his ears. He grasps for his rifle, so certain he’ll touch it, shocked when he comes away clutching nothing but bedsheets. Slowly, he orients himself to his surroundings: the crack in the ceiling, the open window, the springy soft bed— 

The lamp goes on. Blake’s crouched between their beds, squinting blearily at Will. “Hey. You alright?”

“Oh.” A bead of sweat rolls down Will’s temple, and he’s suddenly aware that his thin nightshirt is soaked through. “Er, yeah. I’m good. Sorry. Was just...having a dream, that’s all.”

“About France?”

“Yeah.”

“Hmm.” Blake chews on his lower lip for a moment. He takes a seat at the foot of Will’s bed, back rigid, like Will might tell him off. “I have them too, y’know. Sometimes. A lot of the time.”

“Yeah?” Will leans forward instinctively, then thinks better of it. He runs a hand through his sweaty hair, laughing shakily. “I mean. It’s not...it’s a bit stupid, you know? Like I shouldn’t still be thinking about it, after all this time. It’s pathetic, seeing as I’m one of the lucky ones, and you are too, there were so many others, so many who--”

“It’s not been that much time, mate. Less time for you than for me.” The profound sadness in Blake’s eyes nearly takes Will’s breath away, and he finds himself desperately wishing away the distance between them. “I can’t imagine that we’re the only ones.”

He’s right, probably. Will nods and swallows thickly. 

“Hey.” Tentative fingers brush the sensitive skin of Will’s inner arm, slowly pushing his sleeve up until Will’s all broken out in gooseflesh. “When’d you get that?”

“Oh.” Blake’s staring at the tattoo on Will’s bicep, a small red rose with a thorny black stem. Will debates swatting his hand away, but lets him look. “Just after Passchendaele.”

Blake’s fingertips brush over the slightly raised skin, and Will barely suppresses a full-body shudder. “What’s it mean?”

“Doesn’t mean anything, really.” Will looks away. “I needed to look at something beautiful.”

A myriad of emotions cross Blake’s entirely too expressive face before giving way to a softness that recalls the first few days of their initial meeting. So young, so sweet, so imaginative and playful, so very unfit for the horrors of war. Blake doesn’t say anything, just lets the space between them fill with an intimate silence that Will has to shatter before he says or does something he’ll regret. He offers Blake a tight smile, slowly moving his hand away as he draws his sleeve down over the tattoo. “I’m gonna wash up, then.”

“Right.”

He splashes himself in the face with cool water until his heart rate has returned to a normal level, the dream fading far too slowly from his mind, the gentle touch of Blake’s fingers lingering far too long on his skin.

When he returns, Blake has returned to his own bed, where he’s fidgeting with his hands. “Better?”

“A bit, yeah.” With a groan, Will hauls himself into bed. He reaches for the lamp, and is surprised to find Blake staring at him with intent. “What’s up?”

“Nothing, sorry. Glad you’re feeling better. Good night, Sco.”

“Night, Blake.”

Come morning, blissfully, they don’t talk about it.

The next day, Will’s in the middle of a gin cocktail for Devon, the postman, when Blake strides into the pub, a jaunt in his gait and a smile on his face as he makes a beeline for the bar.

“How did it go?” Will slides Devon his drink and immediately pours Blake a pint.

“Brilliant,” gushes Blake, accepting the ale with a nod. “I get to sit on my arse and practice my typing all day! I take dictation, make some notes, set appointments, send the correspondences...brilliant.”

“Exactly like you’d hoped, yeah?” Will pours himself a whisky and raises his glass. “Cheers.”

Blake huffs a laugh and clinks their glasses. He scans the bar, lips quirking up at the posters for various British-made beers papering the back wall. “So this is really what you did before I met you?”

“Yep.”

“I’d have never guessed.” 

“And why is that?”

“Might have something to do with your strong, silent nature, mate.”

“But you’ll concede I’m a good listener.”

“Oh, one of the best.” Blake sips his beer. “Still wouldn’t have guessed.” 

“Alright, what would you have guessed?”

“Dunno. Guess I always pictured you on a farm somewhere.” 

“Like you?”

“Like me.” Blake smiles, just a little, just to one side. “If I’m honest, it’s a bit weird to be doing something else, especially something so different, in a place so different from what I’m used to. Not bad weird, just. Weird. Though I reckon it might be even weirder without all that bloody stuff in the middle.” A faraway look overtakes his eyes for a moment. “I'd never have started typing, though, if not for France. Doubt I would have even considered it. And I certainly wouldn’t be here….” He looks at Will, furrowing his brow. “With you.”

Will hums and busies himself with an empty glass. It’s a terrible thought, the parallel life he would have led, the one without Blake. Even more terrible is the twisted sort of gratitude he has for the war, for bringing them together. 

“Anyway.” Blake raises his beer. “To fresh starts, to new places, and of course, to my best mate.” 

“Cheers once again.” Will shoots his whisky. Blake’s never called him his best mate before, and a warmth unrelated to the drink seeps into his veins. He clears his throat. “I’m sure you’ll still get put to work when you go see your mum, yeah? Best of both worlds.” 

“Oh, she’ll find a thing or twenty for me and Joe to do.” Blake pauses and looks Will in the eye. “She invited you, you know. Says it only makes sense that she meet you, after everything.”

“Oh.” Will hasn’t been expecting that. “When?”

“Next Sunday.”

“I suppose I could cancel my plans and come along.”

Blake’s eyebrow shoots up. “You have plans?”

Will gestures to the bar. 

“Even on a Sunday?”

“Especially on a Sunday. The masses gather to continue their worship at this fine altar, you see.”

Blake barks out a laugh. “Well I’ll be damned. Sco’s grown a sense of humour. Looks like I’m rubbing off on you, mate.” 

“Piss off, I’ve always been this entertaining, my jokes were just too sophisticated for you.”

“Too blasphemous, maybe.” A wide grin splits Blake’s face as he shakes his head and finishes his beer. Warm eyes meet Will’s as he slides his empty glass across the bar. “I’ll take another one, barkeep.”

Will attributes the heat in his cheeks to the whisky, and hopes Blake does, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ta da, chapter two! If you enjoyed, please drop a comment, let me know, and fuel the editing beast within me who currently has chapter 3 clutched in its jaws. 
> 
> Chapter 3 scheduled for next Friday, but if I feel as spicy as I felt this week, I will post it earlier. Also, I've worked out that there should be about 5 chapters when this is said and done, but it might be more like 6, so I just put 5 for now. 
> 
> And, as always, feel free to come yodel about these two with me on [Tumblr dot com](http://hannibalssweaters.tumblr.com/), if you're into that.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will and Blake visit Blake's mother, feelings are felt, old friends are rediscovered, sleep doesn't come easily, and tea is brewed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some content warnings: hurt/comfort, sharing a bed, PTSD, jealousy, masturbation (a bit of erotic content for that rating), gratuitous cameos from original characters.

1:31. 

1:32. 

1:45. 

2:15.

2:32.

Will lets out a quiet sigh. Despite what he’d believed two hours earlier, watching the hands on the clock go round and round at a glacial pace did not, in fact, help him sleep easier. 

He turns onto his side. They’re due to visit Blake’s family the next day--well, technically later today—and he really didn’t want to be exhausted for that. He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to force sleep for the thousandth time, when he hears a pained noise. 

He squints across the pitch dark room. He can make out Blake turning over, groaning unintelligibly. Then, he shudders violently, and whimpers, “Sco!”

Will sits bolt upright and turns on the lamp. Blake’s drenched in sweat, head thrashing from side to side, tear stained face contorted in anguish. “Sco, Sco!”

In an instant, he crosses the distance between their beds and gently nudges Blake’s shoulder. “Blake. Hey. Blake, wake up, you’re alright.”

“Sco,” murmurs Blake again, a crease forming between his eyebrows.

“Shh, Blake, come on. You’re alright. I’m right here. You’re alright.”

Blake twitches under Will's touch, rapid movement just beneath his eyelids. Will shakes him, with just a bit of force, and his eyes fly open as he cries out, _“Sco!”_

“Hey, hey, it’s alright, it’s alright. Bad dreams is all, just bad dreams. You’re alright,” soothes Will, heart cracking as Blake desperately orients himself, gripping Will’s forearms hard enough to hurt. 

“Oh, God help me,” he whispers. He stares wetly up at Will. “I was in the...it was the Hun bunker. The rat...the explosion...you weren’t waking up...I didn’t know...I thought you were...oh, God help me.”

“I know, I know, it’s alright.” Much to his chagrin, Will feels answering tears prick his eyes. “We made it out of that one by the skin of our teeth, didn’t we? You got us out of there, remember? You saved my life, Tom. Both of our lives.”

“God. Oh, God. I’m—I’m sorry, I just...I’m sorry—“

“Come, now. You don’t have to explain anything to me. I was there, too, remember?”

Blake’s lower lip quivers and he clutches at Will even tighter. He runs his eyes over his face like it’s a map that he can commit to memory, and Will desperately wishes that he could card a hand through his hair, press kisses to his tear stained cheeks, lie down beside him and hold him until they fell asleep…

It’s intense, nearly too intense to hold, but he stays, allowing Blake to look at him, touch him, use him to ground himself in reality.

“I thought I’d lost you,” says Blake finally, and his voice is so small and frail that Will is instantly transported back to that horrible moment at the farm in France, the one he’s tried so hard to forget. When he held Blake in his arms, when he wasn’t sure if Blake was going to live or die.

Before his head can catch up to his heart, Will takes Blake’s wrist and places his hand over his heart. “You didn’t. See? My heart’s still beating.”

Blake’s eyes go wide and his lips part. “Oh, Sco,” he murmurs, heaving breaths softening. He spreads his fingers and presses down, down, until Will can feel his pulse just against his own. “You’re alright. I’m so, so glad you’re alright.” 

“Likewise.” Will covers Blake’s hand with his own. And, God, it’s nothing short of a miracle that they’re both here, both breathing, together. Overcome by the realization that he’d do anything for this man, anything at all, Will interlaces their fingers, just like on that day, that awful, lonely day, and keeps hold as he listens to the sound Blake’s breathing evening out.

After a long moment, before Will is ready, Blake disentangles their fingers and wipes his eyes. “Be right back.” 

He lets Will help him out of bed and goes to the bathroom. Will returns to his bed and rests his own hand over his thumping heart, anchoring the weight of Blake’s touch to his chest. 

When Blake returns, he hesitates in the doorway. 

Will frowns. “Everything alright?”

Blake’s chewing the inside of his cheeks, furrowing his brow, some sort of internal Armageddon writing itself all over his face.

“What is it, Blake?”

He shifts his weight, shakes his head. “Nothing. Just. It can be a bit hard to get my mind right again, after, is all.”

Wills heart _aches._ “I understand.”

“I don’t want this to sound...I don’t want to sound weird or anything, but…” He looks away, fidgeting with his hands. “I was thinking that I’ve had such trouble sleeping...because I’m still not used to sleeping alone. Or with so much quiet, really.” He laughs nervously, words coming out in a rush. 

“Alright.” Will crosses his arms, unsure of where he’s headed. 

“So I was thinking, and it’s just an idea, a very silly idea, but, maybe, what if…” He meets Will’s gaze with a staggering honesty. “What if we tried pushing the beds together? So it’s closer quarters, more like...you know, it’s a bit more like abroad?”

A thousand thoughts rush through Will’s head as he processes what just came out of Blake’s mouth. 

He doesn’t know what he’d expected him to say, but it certainly hadn’t been _that._

He knows he shouldn’t acquiesce. He knows that it could be ringing a dangerous bell, one that could never be unrung, but he can't bear the thought of denying Blake anything, ever, especially when the openness on his face begins to mutate into horror with every passing moment of Will’s silence. 

And it’s not like it doesn’t make sense, if you think about it. Maybe it would help Will, too. 

Blake starts sputtering out an attempt to backtrack when Will hears himself say, “Alright, if you like.”

“Yeah?” Blake’s relief is palpable. “It could just be for tonight, just to help me sleep. I think once I’ve got one solid night under my belt, it’ll be far easier to carry on, right? So long as it’s fine with you, of course. I really, God, this sounds ridiculous, I shouldn’t have said anything, I should have—“

“It’s no bother,” says Will with a little smile, though his heart pounds in his ears like a war drum. 

Moving in tandem, they push the beds together, switching the placement of Will’s bed with the small table. 

In order to make Blake feel as comfortable as possible, Will climbs into bed first, though he is unsure of which way to face. Blake happily sidles up beside him, almost close enough to touch, and murmurs the most contented _thanks_ Will has ever heard. The weight at his back is deeply comforting, and he briefly registers the feeling of his nerves dissipating as drowsiness overtakes him and his mind drifts off. 

_“Fuck!”_

Will wakes with a start to Blake pressed up against him, thrusting a pocket watch in his face.

“It’s gone nine! We were supposed to catch the 9:45 to my mum’s!”

 _Shit._ Will sits up, barely conscious, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He kicks the sheets off and readies himself in a rush, nearly knocking into Blake every step of the way. 

They make it to the station at the same time the train does, running like their lives depend on it (which, according to Blake, they do), Blake clutching his hat to his head and Will cradling the bottle of Bordeaux that Robert helped him select for the occasion like a baby.

It’s not until they arrive at Blake’s farmhouse that Will realizes he’s been picturing it as the abandoned farm in France this whole time. The two places couldn’t be more different. Blake’s home is bigger, and built of stone, and even from Will’s initial limited view, he can tell the orchard is enormous. 

No wonder Blake knows so much about trees and fruits and flowers. Will supposes he’d also be an encyclopaedia on the stuff if he grew up around so much nature. 

They’re greeted in the driveway by six rambunctious, floppy-eared dogs. Will nearly loses his footing as they circle excitedly around him, barking and nuzzling at his knees.

“Well, this here’s Myrtle and the gang,” says Blake, scratching behind the ears of the largest one. “Hello, darling, hello sweet girl.”

“What a welcoming committee,” says Will, tucking the wine under his arm so he can crouch down and pet as many soft, chestnut-colored heads as possible.

“Hello, welcome, welcome!” A boisterous woman who could only possibly be Blake’s mother emerges from the house, wearing a colorful dress and a stained apron. She’s short and heavyset, with the same soft, dark curls, expressive blue eyes, and sweet round face that she’d passed along to both of her sons. She’s beside herself with joy to have company, embracing Blake until he squirms. She greets Will with almost equal enthusiasm. “It’s lovely to finally meet you, dear. Tommy’s told me so much about you, and I couldn’t be happier to be hosting the boy who saved my dear youngest son’s life.” 

“It’s lovely to meet you too, Mrs. Blake.”

“Please, call me Lizzy.” 

“Lizzy. Ah, this is for you.” Will hands her the wine. “Thank you for having me.”

Her eyes widen as she reads the label. “Goodness, this is beautiful! Thank you, love.” She wraps him in a second, even tighter hug. “Come in, now, you two.”

She wrangles the dogs with nothing more than a whistle and a hand wave, fussing over the wine and Blake’s new jacket as she herds them into the house. She pulls a tall, thin woman out of the spacious kitchen, with equally blue eyes and a long dark braid streaked with grey going down her back. “This is my sister, Tommy’s Aunt Linda. Linda, this is Sco. Oops,” she covers her mouth like she’s said a curse. “Lance Corporal Schofield.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Lance Corporal,” says Linda with a bright smile that Will is quickly learning to be genetic. 

He can’t help but laugh, exchanging glances with a mortified Blake as he shakes Linda’s hand. “Pleasure to meet you as well, ma’am, and I assure you, the formalities are entirely unnecessary.”

“It’s actually Sergeant Major Schofield,” supplies Blake unhelpfully, “but just call him Will, please, Auntie. _Mum.”_

He gives his mother a warning look, and Lizzy rolls her eyes. She fills two tall glasses with water and shoves them into their waiting hands. 

“Thank you,” says Will, taking a long sip. “Can we help you with anything, Lizzy?”

“God bless, he’s so polite!” Lizzy squeezes Blake’s arm firmly and returns to the stove. “No, no, thank you, dear, we’ve got it covered. Joe’s set to arrive within the hour, so...hmm, Tommy, dear, why don’t you give Will a tour, alright? Lunch will be ready when you return.”

“Don’t have to tell me twice.” Blake grabs Will’s arm and steers him abruptly out of the kitchen. “Sorry about that. Might have referred to you as ‘Sco’ one too many times around Mum.”

“I don’t mind.” 

“‘Course you don’t. Nothing bothers you.” 

“Plenty bothers me.” They stop in the vestibule so Blake can get his cane. Will decides to wear the scarf he’d brought. It’s not terribly cold, but the winds are a bit whippier out here in the country. 

The farmhouse sits on a massive property, with a pretty little garden, and a proper barn in the back for the animals. Blake takes him there first. 

“Just the two cows, the chickens, the goats, and Rosie, Aunt Linda’s horse. And the dogs, of course. That’s all they can really handle these days,” explains Blake. He watches as Will tentatively strokes Rosie’s muzzle, eyes going wide as he realizes that she’s just going to...let him. 

“Looks like someone’s taken a shine to you.” Blake grins as he fumbles in a bag on the shelf. He hands Will a carrot. “She’ll like you even more if you give her this.”

Will takes it from him, clutching it like a spear in his free hand. Blake doubles over in laughter. “No. No, God, no, Sco. Look.” He grabs another carrot and breaks it in two. He places the carrot on his hand, palm up, fingers flat, and carefully slides it under Rosie’s mouth. She slurps it up gratefully. “Like that.”

Will stops petting her and breaks his own carrot in half. He mimics what Blake did: fingers flat, palm up. “Like this?”

“Yeah, just…” Blake steps closer, so close that Will can feel the heat of his body at his back. He looks at him, a question in his eyes. When Will doesn’t move away, he slips his hand beneath Will’s, gently cradling the back of his hand with his palm, slotting his fingers alongside Will’s.

_Oh._

Will’s heart speeds up as the warmth from Blake’s palm seeps into his skin. He carefully breathes in and out of his nose as Blake guides his hand to Rosie’s lips. Rosie flicks out her tongue and slobbers all over Will’s hand as she gobbles the carrot. Will gasps, shocked by the bizarre sensation, then lets out a laugh. “Good girl! You liked that, didn’t you?”

Blake’s chuckle rumbles in his chest, and Will’s close enough to feel it move through him like magic. For a moment, he’s stricken by the urge to turn around and press their lips together, drinking the laughter from his mouth until neither of them can breathe. 

“Not too bad, right?” Blake’s fingers caress the back of Will’s hand as he gently releases his hold. Will immediately mourns the loss of his touch. “Come on, next up is the orchard.”

It’s breathtaking enough from the outside, so to step into the orchard, to truly be immersed in it, is overwhelming. Fruits and blossoms and lovely scents and colors and busy bugs abound, and beneath every step Will takes is a bed of petals. 

“Ah! See these?” Blake reaches up and pulls down a tree branch covered in lovely white blossoms. “Duke cherries. Like the ones in France. They won’t bear fruit for another few weeks. Reckon Mum will find a reason to have us back when they do.”

Will runs his hands gently over the smooth bark, brushing a thumb over delicate petals as he inhales their sweetness. It’s enchanting, like being plunged into a fairy land where nothing outside matters, where the ugliness of the world halts at the fence, unable to touch this perfect slice of paradise.

“You know, when I was at the tattooist,” he starts, a bit absently, then quickly clamps his lips shut. He hadn’t meant to start this story. He hadn’t _ever_ meant to tell _anyone_ this story, especially not Blake. Instead, he’d planned, quite decisively, to take it with him to the grave.

“Yeah?” Now Blake’s leaning against the tree, attentive, and Will knows he won’t be able to drop it.

“Never mind.” He tries anyway.

“Oh fuck off, Sco! You’re really gonna deny me a tattoo story?”

Will sets his jaw, suddenly irritated. Irritated at himself for lacking the self control to keep this door shut, irritated at Blake for burrowing under his skin and staying there, for always making him say more than he means to say. “It’s not much of a story. Boring, really.”

“So bore me, then! It certainly won’t be the first time.”

Will softens, but doesn’t say anything. Blake lets out a loud sigh and starts walking away. Dramatic bastard. After a moment, Will catches up. Blake doesn’t acknowledge his presence. He takes a deep breath, ignoring the flutter in his chest. “When I was at the tattooist, initially, I hadn’t had a rose in mind.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah.”

“What did you have in mind, then?”

Will swallows. “I’d...originally hoped to have a cherry blossom done.”

Blake slows his pace. “Oh?”

Will nods.

Blake stops walking. He turns to Will and folds his hands over his cane. His face is so open, it’s almost difficult to look at head-on. “Why a cherry blossom?”

Will holds his gaze.

_Because of you, idiot. I wanted to keep you with me at all times. Because I knew you were alive and that I might not be for much longer. Because when I thought about the beauty I wanted to remind myself of, I thought about you. Because you’re in my skin like no one’s ever been, so why not make it permanent?_

“Because it made me feel hopeful,” he says instead.

For a long moment, Blake says nothing, just looks at Will as his eyes change like a kaleidoscope. Finally, he drops his eyes. A wistful breath escapes his lips. “So why’d you get a rose instead?”

“I forgot how to say bloody ‘cherry blossom’ in French.” 

He hadn’t. He’d gotten too nervous, and asked for a rose.

Blake laughs. “That’s a fair enough reason.” 

“Roses were my mum’s favourite, as well,” adds Will, smiling a little, too, though he’s still regretting bringing the whole ordeal up in the first place. A serious look comes over Blake’s face.

“What?”

“Do you ever…” He stops, shakes his head. “Dunno. Sorry. It’s a stupid thought.”

“Can’t be a lick stupider than what I just said.”

“I dunno.” Blake scoffs, rubs a hand over the back of his head. He steps closer. “Sometimes...sometimes, when I can’t sleep, I think...I think that there’s never gonna be anybody who…oh, God, forget it.”

Before he’s able to stop himself, Will closes the gap between them. The tips of their shoes touch. “Go on. Tell me.”

Blake inhales deeply. “Sometimes, when I can’t sleep, I think about all the people I know. Those who are still alive, those who are dead. And everything that’s happened. And I think that, maybe, it’s you, that you’re the person who--”

“Tom! Will! Lunch!” Lizzy Blake’s powerful voice cascades through the property, shattering the moment between them. Blake’s lips fall shut in a melancholy half-smile. Will swallows his heart, desperately wanting Blake to finish his thought.

In an equal, simultaneous desperation, he's glad for the interruption. 

“Suppose we ought to head in,” says Blake. 

Fierce disappointment settles in Will’s bones. “Right.” 

Joe greets Will like an old friend, and introduces his lovely, pregnant wife, Tara. Lunch is a raucous affair, just as Will knew it would be, set in the back dining room where there’s a divine view of the property: lush green hills, blossoming orchard, grazing cows, everything. 

“So, Will,” says Lizzy, replenishing his glass of white wine. “Is there a woman in your life?”

“No. No, there isn’t.”

Lizzy looks pointedly at Blake, who doesn’t look back at her. Linda’s mouth falls open and she furrows her brow. “But you’re so very handsome! Pardon my saying, but it’s a bit surprising.”

Will chuckles, face heating. “That’s very kind of you to say, but, no. It’s just not happened for me.” 

“Oh, it will,” says Linda, shoveling a piece of chicken thigh into her mouth. “Bet there are a million gorgeous girlies writing love poems about you, and you don’t even know it.”

“Auntie Linda, I’m sure Will didn’t come here to be interrogated about his love life,” says Joe, and Blake immediately chimes in, “thank you,” and it doesn’t come up again. 

They stay at the Blakes’ until almost sundown. Lizzy insists on sending them home with more food than they’ll know what to do with. Will’s thanking her for dinner when she wraps him in a fierce hug, rubbing his back as she whispers in his ear, “You’re a good lad, a wonderful lad. Thank you. Thank you for taking care of my Tommy. Thank you for everything.”

“Mum, please don’t kill my flatmate,” calls Blake from the foyer, and Will’s eyes crinkle up in silent laughter.

“Alright.” Lizzy relents. “But you’re welcome here any time. Bring him round any time, Tommy.” 

Will’s touched, though he’s not sure how to respond, so he just smiles and says, “Thank you.”

The train ride back to Cookham is pleasant enough, filled mostly with comfortable silence. About three quarters of the way through, Blake pulls his gaze from the window and looks at Will. “Can I tell you something?”

Will tries not to swallow audibly. “Don’t see why not.”

“When I say, casually, in conversation, ‘God,’ anymore…” Blake furrows his brow, lips in a tight line. “I know I say it quite a bit, but...it’s mostly out of habit.”

He’s looking at Will like he should be scandalized, but Will just nods thoughtfully. “Makes sense.”

“Does it?” Blake sets the plate of leftovers aside and leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Not many others would agree.”

“Who are you considering to be among these ‘many others?’” Will crosses a leg over his knee. “Are they men who...are they men like us?”

Blake looks away, pensive. “Guess it’s a mix.”

“Okay.” 

“Just that…I’ve never really said this, but...” Blake’s eyes wander back to the window, to the passing scenery, enrobed in purple twilight. “I used to be so certain, but now...now, I’m not so sure what I believe, anymore.”

A sweet wave of warmth ripples through Will. His lips quirk up. “I understand.”

Blake’s lips mimic his own, without needing to look at his face. “Thought you might.”

By the time they return to the flat, it's late. Once they’re settled and washed up, Will stands in the doorway, staring at their beds. They’d slept too late that morning and hadn’t made them up, so the sheets are tangled together, one set indiscernible from the other. If one didn’t know better, one might assume they were just one set of sheets. Just one bed.

“I dunno about you, but I’m bloody knackered.” Blake ambles into the room, yawning loudly as he flops onto his side. He notices Will’s hesitation, stiffening slightly.

Well, that simply won’t do. Will shakes his thoughts off and climbs into bed with Blake. 

Despite the understanding that it would be a temporary fix, the beds stay pushed together. They’re both sleeping better than they have in years. Will tells himself it’s to do with how closely their proximity mimics wartime. He tries not to think about the occasional mornings when he wakes up with an arm flung across his chest, or legs tangled with his. 

But all the accidental nighttime contact in the world couldn’t have prepared him for one particular morning, when he awakes to a very comfortably snoozing Blake pressed up against his back, arm strewn carelessly across him, snoring like anything, with a very prominent erection poking against his rear.

The haze of Will’s sleep breaks immediately. He lies there, panicking, as Blake snores softly in his ear. It’s not as though this were an uncommon occurrence for men, Will’s been known to wake up in a similar state himself, but the fact that it’s just there, and he can feel it, and it’s _Blake,_ is making his vision tunnel.

He’s surely gone mad, he thinks, as he ever so gingerly, ever so experimentally pushes back against him. Blake feels so very big, so very hard, and Will has to bite his lip to avoid making an unfortunate sound. 

He tries to keep his breathing as quiet as possible as he rolls out of reach, stumbling to his feet as the floorboards groan beneath him. Blake shifts onto his back, but doesn’t wake, and Will's head goes all staticky as he gawks at the outline of his prick, poking proudly up in his drawers, as every last drop of blood in his body rushes between his legs.

_Fuck._

He runs to the bathroom and pulls himself out with trembling hands. He shouldn’t, he shouldn’t, he shouldn’t do this, but God help him, he can’t focus, he can’t even think, and it’s hardly the first time Blake’s popped into his head during one of these moments.

“Fuck it,” he whispers. He spits in his hand and gives himself a long stroke, the outline of Blake’s cock burning into his brain, the feeling of it branded into his skin. His eyelids flutter as he slows his hand, pretending he’s holding Blake instead, wondering what it would feel like, what would make him gasp and shudder. He wonders what Blake tastes like, how he’d feel in his mouth, stretching his lips wide, and _fuck--_

Fluid beads at the tip of his prick. He wants Blake, so badly, so, so badly, and he’s tried not to think of it for so long, but now the floodgates are open, and all he can think about is Blake’s gorgeous blue eyes, blown wide with lust, Blake’s dark hair all mussed, Blake’s voice, panting sweet words in his ear, Blake kissing him, Blake on top of him, beneath him, _inside_ of him... 

Will tips his head back against the door, mouth open in a silent scream, eyes rolling back in his head as he comes and comes, harder than he has in years, perhaps harder than he ever has. 

Guilt creeps into his gut as he descends from his high, anchoring itself deep. Blake is not wank fodder. He is his best friend in the world. But the thing is, Will knows that. What he feels for Blake is more, so much more, than just lust of the most forbidden type, and it always has been. Blake is his brother in arms. _His best friend in the world._ He’s warm smiles and weird jokes and sweet laughter and pure heart and old, beautiful soul. He’s everything, and Will doesn’t think he’d be able to live without him.

He loves Blake. He _loves_ him. He’s known it for a while, for years, but he’s never been able to admit it. And for good reason, because it’s already difficult to be around Blake without feeling like his heart might stop in his chest, but now that he’s put the label of love on his feelings, it’s almost impossible to look at him without inadvertently communicating his deepest wishes. Without ruining everything. Because it could never be, not like this. If Blake knew...he'd pack for home in an instant, never to be seen or heard from again. No. Will can't have that. He must swallow his feelings, and continue with his life, grateful for all that he and Blake do share.

So he cleans himself up, swallows his feelings, and returns to bed, convincing himself that he's ready to continue on with his life, content with the way it is. 

“Guess who I saw at the tailor today?” Charlotte leans against the kitchen counter and crosses her arms, the afternoon sun highlighting the red in her hair.

“Who?” Will’s only half listening, brow furrowed as he clips dead and withering leaves from the basil sprig in the window box. 

“Emma Daniels.”

Will stops clipping. “I haven’t heard that name in years. How is she?”

“Who’s Emma Daniels?” Blake calls from the other room.

“Will’s old flame,” bellows Charlotte, to Will’s abject horror. He fumbles with the scissors and glares at her. It’s not even been a week since the _incident,_ and Charlotte has to go on and fold _this_ into everything.

Blake pads into the kitchen, face fully bemused. “Old flame, you say? Sco, you dog, you never told me.”

“For heaven's sake, Charlotte.” Will sighs in the direction of his self-satisfied sister. “I took Emma to dinner a few times before I went abroad. We went to school together. We were friends, nothing more.”

“I‘d reckon she’s still carrying the torch.” Charlotte shoots Blake a conspiratorial look that the poor lad has no idea how to handle. “Her eyes lit up when I said you’d come home, and she asked after you, of course. You should call on her, see how she’s doing.”

Will shakes his head. “I don’t know, it’s been so long...”

“Go on, Sco. Why not?” Blake’s voice is light, and he’s smiling, like he’s taking the piss, but there’s something forced in his tone that Will can’t quite comprehend.

“See? Tom agrees,” says Charlotte triumphantly. She waggles her eyebrows at Blake. “And I’m sure she’s got at least one pretty friend for you, too!”

“Well then, there you have it,” says Blake, holding Will's gaze. “You’ve got to see her, for both our sakes.”

Will has never in his life wanted a conversation to end so badly, so he says, “Alright, I’ll think about it.”

“Goodie!” Charlotte claps delightedly and waltzes out of the room. Just as she’s about to leave the flat, she calls, “Oh, and I’ve told her to pop into the pub on one of your shifts, so...cheerio!” 

“Oh goddammit, Charlotte,” mutters Will, abandoning the herb garden to lean against the sink. He’s not opposed to seeing an old friend, especially not someone he was once so close with, but he hates, has always hated, the way everyone’s expected him to want more from her than her friendship.

He knows why, of course, he’s not an idiot, but he wishes so, so fiercely that things were different. 

Of course, the next day, the bell on the pub door rings, and Emma walks in. She looks almost the same as before, pretty brown eyes and long golden hair, plaited down her back, but there’s a hardness on her face that makes Will's heart sink. The ones left at home were certainly not spared the grief of those abroad. 

She stops short when she sees him, a grin spreading over her face.

“Will?”

Will sets down his dishrag. “Hello Emma, how are you?”

She comes up to the bar, eyes shining, and Will walks around to give her a hug. She holds him tight, pulling him close, and lets out a barely audible sob against his ear. Will holds her, squeezing his eyes shut, more than a touch overwhelmed. He understands the grief of not knowing, of mourning indiscriminately in the wake of mass disappearances, for those friends you might never see again. 

After a long moment, they pull apart. She sniffs, wipes her eyes. “It’s so good to see you.”

“It’s good to see you too.” He hands her his handkerchief before returning behind the bar. “Do you still prefer Chardonnay?”

“I do,” she laughs, taking a seat. “Although I’ve taken a liking to whisky in recent years too.”

“Expanding your tastes, very good.” Will holds up a bottle of wine and a bottle of Irish whisky. “So, what’ll it be?”

“Oh, God. As much as I’d like to say whisky, best make it a wine.”

She sits at the bar for a long while, filling Will in on the last several years of her life. She worked in a munitions factory down in Maidenhead for a time, during the worst of it, until the dust got to her.

“Still have the cough,” she says, passing Will his handkerchief back and producing one of her own. She has a vegetable garden, too, and she and her best friend from school now run a bakery on the other end of town. Blushing faintly, she produces a crumpled little sack full of pastries. 

Will accepts them gratefully. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure.” She smiles at him, straightening her posture and looking at her watch. “As lovely as this has been, I’ve got to get home. I hope we can see each other again soon.”

“I’m sure we will.”

She pushes the money across the counter. When Will goes to retrieve it, she covers his hand with her own. “I’m so glad you’re back.”

He smiles, dropping his eyes.

“Oh, hello.”

Blake is standing in the middle of the pub, eyes ricocheting between Emma, Will, and their joined hands. Will quickly pulls his hand away, like he’s been burned. 

“Hello,” says Emma, looking quizzically at Blake. 

“Emma, this is Tom Blake. Blake, this is Emma Daniels.”

“Oh! Lovely to meet you, Emma.” Blake crosses the room and shakes her hand, smiling warmly.

“Blake’s my flatmate,” says Will. 

“Oh, your friend from the army. So nice to meet you.” Emma smiles, shakes his hand, and slides out of her seat. “Unfortunately I’m on my way out, but I do hope to see you again soon. The both of you,” she says, looking at Will. 

“Until next time,” he says.

“Well, she’s perfectly lovely,” says Blake once she’s gone. Something has changed in the air between them that Will can’t quite place, but he doesn’t like it. 

“Indeed.” 

“I can see why you fancy her.”

“It’s as I said, we are just friends.”

Blake scoffs derisively. “That’s not what it looked like to me.”

“I don’t know what you think you saw, but—“

“It's nice that you've got someone, Sco.” Blake smiles tightly. “Really. Now how about a nice stout?”

Will’s lips part in shock. Blake looks at him expectantly, clearly disinterested in returning to the conversation. Will pours his beer, and leaves him at the bar to attend to the two solicitors who just sat down. 

He spends his shift barely paying Blake any mind. Not because he doesn’t want to, but because it’s terribly crowded, and antisocial energy pours off of Blake in strong currents. He drinks two stouts quietly, leaves a large tip, and exits while Will is busy without saying anything. 

At the sight of his unoccupied barstool, the pit of Will’s stomach drops. Blake’s never done that before--even when Will’s swarmed, he always yells a goodbye, or barrels through the crowd to tell him he’s leaving. Furthermore, he’s never shut him down in such a way before. And why? Because Will had a reunion with a friend? And Blake had misinterpreted it? What was there to misinterpret, anyway? Was he concerned that Will wouldn’t want to spend as much time with him anymore?

He stops, shakes his head. These thoughts are patently fucking absurd. They’re not little children. They’re their own people, living their own lives, and sometimes, those lives diverge, no matter how much time you spend together. Sometimes, people need their space, especially people like Blake and Will. 

When he gets home that night, Blake’s already curled up in bed, fast asleep. Feeling no small amount of disappointment, Will climbs in beside him and drifts into a dreamless, uneasy sleep.

Some time later, he’s awakened by an incessant _tap tap tapping_ noise. He rolls over. The sheets are rumpled on Blake’s side, and the bed is empty. The door is cracked, and a little light filters in. He rubs his eyes and pads into the living room. 

Blake’s hunched over the small desk crammed against the wall, fingers flying furiously over the keyboard of his typewriter. 

“Blake?”

He whirls around with a gasp, clutching his chest. “Oh, shit. I woke you.”

“No trouble.” Will’s eyes fall on the growing stack of printed pages beside the typewriter. “Writing the next great British novel?”

Blake snorts. “Hardly.”

“Then what’s all this?” Will slowly approaches the desk. Blake quickly covers the pages with his forearm. 

“Please, don’t. They’re not finished.”

“What are they?”

“They’re…” Blake drops his gaze. “Just memories, really. Thoughts. If I can’t sleep, I’ve found that it’s helpful to write. It’s calming, the action of writing, and the idea that I’m sort of getting all the thoughts out of my head. It sounds stupid, I know, but--”

“It doesn’t sound stupid.” Something constricts in Will’s chest. “Actually makes quite a bit of sense. Good idea.”

“That’s me, the master of excellent ideas.” 

“Well, I’ll leave you to it.” Will turns to leave, then pauses. “Although, I will be closing the door all the way, as your memoirs air on the noisy side of things.”

“Sorry.” Blake chuckles tiredly. “I’ll be back in, too, in a moment.”

“Sounds grand.” 

“Sco?”

Will stops. “Yes?”

Blake hesitates, and says, “I’m sorry about earlier. Leaving the pub without saying anything. It was a long day, you know?”

“It’s alright. I reckon we all have days like that.”

“Right.” Blake looks down, like he wants to say something else, but he doesn’t.

Will leans against the doorframe. It’s not like he’d be able to fall back to sleep at this rate, and with Blake out here, it’s not like he even wants to try. “Want some tea?”

Blake nods gratefully. “Please.”

Will makes them tea, and they sit together at the dusty little table by the window in companionable silence until the morning turns the sky a milky blue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was extra long--I couldn't break it apart organically, and honestly, I didn't want to. Once again, you all floored me with your lovely comments on the first two chapters, so I went ahead and posted this before Friday! If you enjoyed it, please let me know--life has been, well, quite strange recently, so I find myself indoors and editing a lot, and your lovely comments fuel my soul and the editing beast who lives within me.
> 
> Chapter 4 is due next Friday, but it looks like it'll likely come earlier...and buckle up, because it will definitely contain at least one very graphic reason for the E rating. 
> 
> And, as always, feel free to come yodel about these two with me on [Tumblr dot com](http://hannibalssweaters.tumblr.com/), if you're into that.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Ride the ocean waves  
>  The rising surge  
>  The rush of waning surprise  
>  It's time to call the gods  
>  Sink in the waves  
>  And all you laid in the arms  
>  So go, go on and love  
>  Go on and love  
>  Go on and love what you are  
>  Come on, say things about me  
>  All your love's like a fire burning on and  
>  All wide like an oasis  
>  All your love’s like a fire burning on and on_  
>  _Windhand - Woodbine_
> 
> Alternatively: a series of escalating misunderstandings leads to confessions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fic earns its rating in this chapter, lads. Buckle in for quite a bit of very graphic, gratuitous smut (the tags have been updated accordingly). Yup, oodles of the stuff.
> 
> If you want to go on a journey, listen to this [song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XC0MQog6Omg) near the end. You’ll know when to put it on.
> 
> Other content notes include: jealousy, minor PTSD, misunderstandings/comedy of errors, domesticity, arguing, a hint of heterosexuality (like a Lacroix-level of a hint, it's not even there).

“Oh good, you’re home.” Blake snatches the bag of pastries out of Will’s hands before he’s fully inside the flat. He opens it and inhales deeply. “Good lord. If she keeps bringing these round, I won’t be able to fit through the bloody door.”

“You do realize that it’s not up to you, personally, to eat all of those, right?” Will watches as Blake whisks the bag into the kitchen. “And Charlotte specifically requested I save one of those little fruit thingies for the girls, so…”

“Brilliant, ‘cos it’s the chocolate cream puff I’m after.” 

“And _what_ is that smell?” Will trails after him, nostrils flaring. “Was something recently...on fire, in here?”

Blake grimaces. “Ah. That.”

_“‘That?’”_

“I was sort of hoping it would be gone by now so you wouldn’t notice. It’s not a big deal, but...oh, God. Don’t laugh.”

“I won’t.”

“I may or may not have tried my hand at my mum’s chicken soup recipe earlier. Thought it might be nice if I made dinner for once. Er, long story short...” He gestures sheepishly from the open window to the sink, overflowing with pots and pans. “At least we’ve got that leftover stew from a few nights ago.”

Will blinks at him. “You burned...soup?”

He nods. 

Will tries to keep his lips pressed in a tight line but he can’t help it, they’re twisting up into a smile. “And how, exactly, does one go about burning soup?”

Blake’s mouth falls open, betrayed, hands flying up in frustration. “I dunno, okay! I don’t fucking know. I didn’t think you could. And you said you wouldn’t laugh, you prick!”

“That was before you told me you _burned soup.”_

“Stop saying ‘burned soup!’” Blake’s last words come out in a huff of laughter. There’s a pause, then Will just loses it, bracing himself on the counter as he dissolves into a fit of giggles. Blake’s right behind him, and his laughter spurs Will on, which in turn makes Blake laugh harder, and before they know it, tears are rolling down their faces and Will’s belly is aching. 

In that moment, in their little kitchen, Will’s a boy again. A boy who knows nothing of suffering and tragedy, who has never smelled death’s decay among the living, a boy who is young and innocent and free. He watches Blake wipe the tears from his eyes, and the love he feels for him multiplies in spades, erupting in his chest and spreading like lava through his body. 

Will clears his throat and turns his attention to the sink. “Right, then. I suppose we’ve got some cleaning up to do.”

“‘We?’”

“You’ve made this great bloody mess, but I can’t expect you to clean it all alone.”

A sweet little smile plays over Blake’s lips. “Then I suppose we have some cleaning to do.” 

“Burning the bloody soup,” he says, shooting Bake a sideways grin as he begins scrubbing the stock pot. “I don’t care what you say, that’s got to take some level of effort.” 

“Shut it.” 

“I know I’m a shit cook, but you’ve really outdone us both with this.”

“Shut--what? You’re not a shit cook.”

“No?”

“No! Do you not see me clean my plate every time you cook? Those pork chops last night were divine, mate. I was still thinking about them today.”

“Well, that’s good to know.” Will tries desperately to contain the blush creeping into his cheeks as he passes Blake the stock pot. “I’m glad you liked them.”

“I like everything you make.” Blake smiles fondly at him as he takes the pot, briefly covering Will’s fingers with his own. 

It’s a good thing he’s got a good grip on it with his other hand, because Will almost drops the damn thing. 

“Between your cooking and all of Emma’s lovely baking, I’ve been eating like a king.” Blake reaches for the towel by the stove. “You two will be a formidable team in the kitchen one of these days, you know?”

The warmth that had been radiating through Will evaporates, leaving a crisp chill in its wake. “Christ, don’t marry me off just yet. She’s just a friend, like I’ve said countless times.”

“Hmm, sure. A friend who drops by your work every day with fresh baked goods?” 

“It’s not unheard of.”

“You’re thicker than a fucking felt boot.” Blake looks at him like he truly means it. “She’s mad for you, mate. It’s plain as day.”

A wave of irritation rolls over Will, followed immediately by sweeping fatigue. Blake can usually read him so well, why is this so different? He sighs. “Even if that were true, I’m not interested.”

“Not interested? What, blonde and gorgeous and great at baking aren’t your type?”

_No, I rather prefer dark-haired, short, beautiful fucking idiots who make long train rides pass like nothing with jokes and conversation, who burn soup and keep me awake all night with incessant typing._

Blake’s gaze is unrelenting. The scrutiny is almost unbearable, but Will holds it. There’s something else there, too, a quiet sort of understanding that makes Will’s stomach swoop. 

Will’s been careful to play his less than common preferences very close to the vest, so it would only be natural for Blake to assume he’s just like everybody else. On the other hand, Blake knows him better than anyone, to the point that it’s almost ridiculous. They’ve woken up in one another’s arms, or close enough, for heaven’s sake. That has to count for something.

Suddenly, he's overcome with the urge to tell him. Not about his feelings for Blake specifically, no--never, ever, that--but about his true nature. About the fact that he isn’t interested in women. It shouldn’t matter, but he knows it will. He knows it will irrevocably change their relationship, but he can’t live another moment without being honest about it.

Besides, if anyone could find compassion for him, it would be Blake. 

“Tom, I’m going to tell you something now,” he says slowly, his own voice ringing loud and alien in his ears. “It might…it will change how you think of me.”

Blake’s eyes widen. “Go on.”

Heart pounding, Will faces him. _I can do this. We survived the Great fucking War, why not see if we can survive this too?_

He inhales deeply. 

A frantic knocking at their front door jolts the thoughts right out of his head, scattering them into the ether. 

“Oy, Will! It’s Robert, open up!”

Shit. Will wipes his hands on a dish towel and opens the door to reveal his wild-eyed brother-in-law. 

“I’m so, so terribly sorry to barge in on you,” he says. He ducks around Will and waves to Blake. “Evening, Tom. Sorry. Anyway, I know you’re done for the day, but Mick’s called out with a fever and Stephen’s out at his in-laws’ place in the country. The bloody bar is bloody swarmed. I can’t do it on my own, can you come down and help?”

“Oh. Of course. I’ll be right there.” Will exhales unsteadily and glances back at Blake. “I’ve got to go. I’ll help you finish those dishes later?”

“No problem,” says Blake, a little dazed, the ladle in his hand dripping steadily onto the floor.

The pub is busy enough to keep Will’s mind mostly off of what he’d almost done, but it still manages to wriggle its way to the forefront of his thoughts. He’s unsure if he feels relieved or not at the interruption. Perhaps it was a sign. Now that he's had some time away from his near-confession, it’s dubious that he’ll find the courage to broach the topic again, or even face it head-on if questioned later. He prays that Blake will just leave it for the time being.

“Thanks for coming back,” says Robert when the crowd has finally dwindled. “I couldn’t have managed that without you.”

“Of course, no trouble at all.” 

“I’ll give your shift to Stephen tomorrow, since I imagine Mick will still be sick.”

“I can still come in.”

“Please, take the day. You earned it.” Robert leans onto the counter and grins conspiratorially. “And, ah, she’s asked me not to say anything, but Char’s invited Emma for dinner tomorrow.”

“Really?” Will schools his features before he can pull a face. “That’s...nice.”

“Don’t be such a stiff about it, Will. She’s a lovely girl.” Robert winks at him. Will forces a smile. He can’t say he’s surprised, but the idea of explaining to his sister that he couldn’t be less interested in her matchmaking services leaves much to be desired.

On top of that, an entire evening with Emma--particularly with Charlotte trying to push them together like a pair of Gemma’s dolls--would do nothing to dispel Blake of the notion that he is on track to pursue a relationship with her, which is an idea that sours Will’s stomach.

The flat’s dead silent when Will gets home, and all the lights are off. The dishes have been washed, save a single plate in the sink that must have witnessed the gruesome demise of at least one of Emma’s chocolate cream puffs. Will shakes his head. As he heats some very much unburnt leftover stew for a long overdue dinner, his eyes drift over to the desk where Blake spends so many sleepless nights, settling on the stack of papers next to the typewriter. Will’s absolutely dying to read what he’s written, but Blake insists it’s nothing special, that it’s all just rubbish not meant to be seen. Will’s certain he’s wrong, but as curious as he is, he would never peek in on his private writing without permission. 

Blake must know that, which is why he’s chosen to keep the papers out rather than tucking them away. 

Later, once Will’s climbed into their shared bed, he rolls onto his side to face Blake. A bar of moonlight falls through the window, illuminating his face. He’s sleeping deeply, so untroubled that the tiny wrinkles on his forehead have completely ironed out. He looks so very young, so unblemished by all the horrors he’s seen and survived, just like when they first met. Will is stricken by how much he wants to preserve that peace for him. He’d fight the whole bloody war over again, on his own, hell, ten times over, if it meant Blake could be like this forever...safe, cared for, free of strife, resting beside him. His dearest friend.

Will lets out a small exhale. It will always hurt him, like it hurts now, to never be with Blake in the way he wants to be, but pain...pain he can endure. He can continue to keep his love locked away deep inside himself, like he’s locked all of Blake’s letters away, alongside his golden ring, only to be taken out when he is alone in the wee, quiet hours of the night, while Blake sleeps soundly. 

***

“Bloody buggering hell, I’m starving.” Blake strides out of the mayor’s office with a dossier tucked under his arm, stopping to say goodbye and wave to two colleagues. 

“I thought you might say that.” Will produces half of a peeled orange and hands it to him.

Blake looks at him like he’s just been offered the crown jewels. “What if I spoil my dinner?”

“That’s why you’ve only been given half.”

“You’ve got me sorted, you have.” He peels away a segment and pops it in his mouth. “Thank you, this is delightful. I had to work straight through lunch, if you can believe it.”

“Unthinkable.”

“It was, truly, ghastly. Wonder what Charlotte’s got planned for dinner tonight. She was talking about that rarebit recipe a couple of days ago, perhaps that? God, I hope so.”

“Keep your shirt on, we’ll be stuffed like turkeys before we know it.” Will smiles, looking down. “Robert told me that Emma will be joining us tonight.”

“Oh?” A tiny crease appears between Blake’s eyebrows. “Well, that’s nice.”

For a moment, Will wants to say more, to explain, but there’s nothing to say. Nothing that would make any sense, at least. It doesn’t matter, though, because after a beat, Blake launches into an elaborate story about his day, and they arrive at Charlotte’s in no time.

“Uncle Will, Uncle Tom!” Mary and Gemma let them in, rushing them as soon as they’re inside.

“I painted a daisy!” Mary cries, as Gemma presses a toy elephant into Blake’s hand and tries to tug him into the other room. 

“Girls, settle down, please!” Charlotte calls, poking her head out from the kitchen. “Come in, come in! Rob should be back any minute now.”

“Please, can we help you with anything, Charlotte,” says Blake. He hovers just in front of the archway, knowing that he will be obliterated if he sets foot in Charlotte’s kitchen uninvited at any time.

“No, no, don’t trouble yourself—I’m fine!” 

The doorbell rings.

“Can you get that? Will?”

“I’ve got it, I’ve got it.”

He opens the door. It's Emma, holding a large dish of baked goods. Her hair’s done up with sparkly pins, and she’s wearing a dress in a lovely dusty rose color that complements her complexion. She smiles brightly, a faint blush in her cheeks. “Hello, Will.”

“Hello, Emma. Come in, here, let me take that.” 

“Thanks.” Emma hands him the platter. Her blush deepens as Will steps aside to allow her to pass. 

“Emma!” Charlotte flounces out of the kitchen and wraps her in a hug. “Oh, how sweet, you didn’t have to bring us anything. I can’t recall if you’ve met Tom, this is Will’s friend from the army—”

“Yes, we’ve met, lovely to see you again,” says Blake, shaking her hand with a warm smile. He pats the little swell of his belly. “I must make you aware that you’ve been inadvertently derailing my strict dietary regimen with all of your treats.”

Emma laughs. “I’d say sorry, but I’m not. It’s my sworn duty as a baker to keep everyone around me stuffed with sweets. That way, when I stop bringing them round--which I will, just you wait--you have to come into my shop and buy more.”

“How very devious of you,” says Blake. Will huffs a little laugh, and their gazes meet fleetingly, bittersweet.

Dinner is delicious, a hearty steak and potatoes. The conversation turns uproarious after the first glass of wine, and Emma really opens up. She’s charming as ever, of course, listening intently when others speak, offering sincere and witty replies in turn, asking meaningful questions, reminding Will of why they’d gotten along so well to begin with. For one ephemeral moment, he wishes that he felt something for her. It would be so easy, so nice, so free of bumps in the road--courting her, bedding her, wedding her. 

But then Blake chimes in, and this summer day sort of feeling spreads from the tips of Will’s fingers down through his toes. Blake smiles, all the way up to his eyes, recalling sunny days and blooming trees, late night conversations, a gold ring in Will’s pocket, the arrival of loopy scrawl on scrap paper that was better than any hot meal, and, most recently, warm, rumpled sheets.

The feeling of Blake’s body against Will’s, in battle, in bed. 

He chokes a little. Luckily, no one seems to notice.

After dinner’s done, and Robert’s taken the children upstairs, Will starts gathering some plates to clear. Emma rests gentle fingertips upon his forearm. “Hey. Can you help me take the rubbish out?”

“Oh.” His eyes flicker to the kitchen, where Blake is washing dishes as Charlotte shovels an ample portion of potatoes onto a plate. “Of course.”

They lug the bin out back—well, Will does. He sets it down briefly, fingers cramping. His left hand’s never quite been the same since that barbed wire in France, and he needs a moment before lifting it up and dumping it into the outdoor bin. 

“Thanks,” says Emma as he secures the lid.

“My pleasure.”

“I didn’t actually need help with the rubbish,” she confesses with a shy smile.

Will raises his eyebrows. “Oh?”

“I just wanted to talk to you.” She steps closer. “I really enjoyed tonight.”

“As did I.”

With a determined look in her eye, Emma stands on her tiptoes and presses her lips to Will’s. 

Alarms blare in his brain, though he supposes he shouldn’t be shocked. On a visceral level, it’s actually quite nice: being wanted, the sensation of another’s lips on his own after so, so long.

But no matter how lovely and kind she is, no matter how much he knows he should want to be with her, it’s not the taste of Emma’s lips he craves.

He pulls away, laying gentle hands upon her shoulders. “Emma, I’m sorry, I...I can’t.” 

She averts her eyes, cheeks coloring with humiliation. “Why not? Am I not...are we not well-matched?”

“No, no. You’re lovely, very lovely, and smart, and funny, and kind. It’s just...” Will scrambles to find something to say to soften the blow.

Emma looks up at him, crestfallen. “You love someone else.”

Will swallows thickly. _She knows._ He nods slowly, allowing himself this first tacit admission to another person. 

“Do I know her?”

Will falters, looking at his shoes. 

“Well, whoever she is, she’s very lucky, I hope she knows that.” Emma rests her forehead against his shoulder and sighs. Will’s chest constricts as he rubs a soothing hand across her back, only too familiar with heartbreak. “Jesus, I’m so embarrassed. I’m sorry I was so forward, I should have asked first.”

“There's no need to feel embarrassed, you didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I hope we can still be friends.”

“Of course we can.” Will smiles down at her and pulls out his handkerchief. She takes it with a little laugh and dabs her eyes, passing it back before she coughs into her elbow.

“Go on in. I’ll catch up,” she says.

“I’ll wait until you’re ready.” 

She laughs quietly and shakes her head. “I shoulda known you’d get snapped up. I wish I’d been a bit bolder before the fighting. Shoulda locked you down when I had a chance.”

“A lot’s gone on in these last few years. I’m not the same man I was. I’d be a burden to you.”

“You wouldn’t.” She presses the heels of her hands to her eyes and sighs. “But you’re right, I suppose. You’re not the same man, and I’m not the same woman.”

“No indeed.” Will pats her arm. “Ready?”

“Yes.” She gives him a long, fond look. “I meant what I said, about still being friends.”

“I know.”

“I hope you’ll bring her round, eventually. Charlotte will about piss herself to know you’re stepping out with some mysterious, secret lady friend.” 

“Emma…” Will hesitates. “Could you not...could you not mention this to Charlotte, please? Not yet?”

“Not a word.” She nudges their shoulders together with a smirk. “She’s French, isn’t she.”

Will closes his eyes, a tableau of a doomed young girl and a nameless baby splashing across his eyelids. He gives her a half-smile. “Let’s get back in, shall we?”

“Oh, I knew it.”

They finish the cleaning together, drinking a bit of brandy out of little cups in the process. After Charlotte’s fourth yawn in a row, she concedes that it’s time to say good night. Will and Blake agree to walk Emma home, since it’s quite late now, and she’s not far at all. She thanks them both from her doorstep, and gives Will a kiss on the cheek before heading in for the night.

The walk back up to the pub goes quickly, though their strides are short and a bit wonky from the alcohol. They’re turning down their street when Blake says, “Nice dinner.”

“It was, yeah.”

“Nice to see that things are moving along with you and Emma.”

Will’s taken off guard. Blake continues, “I saw you out back, by the bins, you know.” 

The blood in Will’s veins turns to ice. “What did you see?”

“I saw enough.”

 _So you saw it was a massive cock-up, a misinterpretation, yeah? Did you see that I made her bloody cry, did you see that too?_ He can’t get the words out before Blake is carrying on, “I saw you kissing her. Well done, mate, well done. Looks like we can confirm that you are both definitely, beyond a shred of doubt, more than friends. And that little smooch—” Blake taps his own cheek “—back there, that really sealed the deal, didn’t it.”

Ire flares suddenly in Will’s gut. He sets his jaw. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Dunno why you’ve got your knickers in a twist, you make a lovely couple--”

“Would you please just _stop._ We are not a couple, I’m not interested--”

Blake scoffs. “Right, because telling your most impressive stories and your funniest jokes is absolutely not in the repertoire of someone intent on impressing a pretty young girl who was blushing like a bride to be all throughout the evening, no sir, just another dinner conversation with a friend. The same sort of friend who brings you beautiful pastries every day, the same sort of friend who you sneak out back to kiss. Do you treat all your friends like that, Sco? Because I really, really don't think you do!”

“Shut up, just shut up!” Will rounds on Blake. “I’m not _fucking_ interested in Emma, Blake!”

Blake’s mouth falls open, hurt and surprise written across his face. Will’s never raised his voice to him like this, but now that the upset’s bubbled to the surface, he can’t seem to control it. “You never know when to shut up, do you, Blake? Always been your problem, that has. You never know. If you’d bothered to keep peeping for longer than that one bloody second, you’d have seen that I turned her down, that it was all a misunderstanding, a massive _fucking_ cock-up. Emma is...and I...God, Blake, do you really not know? After all this time? Must I really spell it out for you?”

“Do I not know…” Blake trails off, eyes widening in something akin to comprehension.

Will’s breathing too hard to notice, heart thumping in his chest, as the air between them thickens with so many things that are dangerously close to being said. He wants to fucking scream at Blake, _of course I’m not interested in Emma. I’m interested in you!_

The words catch in his throat. He softens at the flush in Blake’s face, and steps closer. _I’m interested in our life together, the one we’ve built. The one we are building. I’m interested in making you smile. I’m interested in hearing your stories, whether they’re elaborate, fanciful things or the product of a long day's work, or even something sad that no one else wants to hear._

Blake briefly breaks their eye contact to look around nervously. Will feels his lower lip start to quiver. _I’m interested in the infernal clacking of your typewriter, the sight of your teacup next to mine. I’m interested in your place at my table, at my family’s table._

“Sco?” Blake’s voice is uncharacteristically quiet, breath hitching in his throat as Will stands directly in front of him, hands shoved deep in his pockets, their chests only inches apart. _I’m interested in the way our bodies press together in the night, like our hearts are acting on all the things I can’t say. I’m interested in your genuine eyes and your musical laugh and your passionate soul, I’m interested in you and only you, and I have been since I met you that horrible autumn day in 1916. And it’ll never change, ever._

_And I don’t want it to._

He sniffs as distant laughter and soft cricket chatter provide a distinct reminder that they are, in fact, outside, and not entirely alone. “I’m not interested in Emma,” he says quietly. He reaches into his pocket for his keys. “We should get inside.”

“Right.” Blake’s voice is barely a whisper. He falls in stride, and they walk upstairs in a charged silence.

Will’s reeling as he toes his shoes off, kicking himself for coming so close to revealing everything he’s worked so hard to keep contained, kicking himself even harder for not going all the way. He heads for the bathroom, intent on washing the entire evening down the drain, when a hand catches his sleeve. 

He whirls around. 

“Sco, what you said…” Blake bites his lip.

Will stares at him.

Blake furrows his brow, fists his hand in Will’s shirt, and yanks him down, crushing their lips together.

Will’s entire world comes to a grinding halt. 

_Blake’s kissing him._

He stands there, frozen, hands out by his sides, utterly immersed in the surreal sensation of Blake’s lips on his, the scent of his hair, the desperate clutch of his hands. He stands there as Blake kisses him, full on the mouth, an unequivocal answer to every question Will has only ever dreamed of asking.

It’s over far too soon. Will’s sort of floating as Blake pulls away, nervous eyes flickering downward. “Oh, fuck. I’m sorry, I dunno why...I thought...I…”

Oh, the idiot _can’t_ believe that he’s miscalculated. Will shakes himself from his fog and takes Blake’s dear face in his hands, smoothing rough thumbs over soft cheeks before kissing him deeply, pouring everything he’s felt for so many years into Blake’s lovely mouth.

Sweaty hands fly up to grasp Will’s forearms as Blake whimpers into the kiss. He parts his lips and Will plunges his tongue inside, tasting wine and lust and _Blake._

Eventually they pull apart to breathe, and Will doesn’t know if it’s been years or days or hours or minutes or seconds but he doesn’t care, continuing to stroke Blake’s face as they catch their breaths, foreheads pressed together.

Blake lets out a delirious little giggle, letting his hands roam up Will’s forearms to his biceps, squeezing appreciatively. “Oh my God, Sco. _Oh, my God.”_

“Hang on, Blake, I’ve got to tell you--”

“I didn’t know…well, I sort of knew, more than sort of, perhaps, but...I’ve wanted...and you...oh, God. Oh, God, Sco.”

“Can you just be quiet for a second, please, let me say this.” He runs the pad of his thumb over Blake’s plush lower lip, unable to cope with the desperation in Blake’s voice, the lost look in his exquisite blue eyes. “It’s you, Blake. You’re the one I’m interested in. You’re the one I love. I...I love you.”

Blake stares up at him. “You...love me?” 

“I’m afraid I do.” He tips Blake’s chin up and kisses him again, his admission releasing all the anguish, the sorrow, the devils within him like pent up steam, giving way to an unprecedented elation. “But I never once thought you might...I never…”

“Of course I bloody do! Of course I...oh, fuck it.” Blake slams him against the wall with such force that the door shakes in its frame. Reason flees Will's mind as he bears the full brunt of Blake’s furious kiss, letting out a groan when Blake’s thigh slots between his legs, pressing against him where he’s already so hard he can barely think.

“Let’s go to bed,” murmurs Blake against his lips. “Please, Sco, can we please, please go to bed.”

“Yes. _Yes.”_ _Finally, fuck yes,_ he thinks as they tumble into the bedroom, shutting the door behind them. 

Blake hurriedly draws the curtains. Will moves for the light, but Blake stays his hand. “Please, leave it on.”

“Whatever you like.” Will's face is on fire as Blake leans up and kisses him like a ravenous man at a feast. Eager hands find the buttons on Will’s shirt.

“May I?”

“Please.” Will watches in awe as Blake undoes each button with trembling hands. He falters on the second to last button, and he looks so frustrated that Will can’t help but chuckle a little.

“No--I’ve got it,” he says shortly, batting Will’s hands away. And he does, finally untucking and pushing his shirt from his shoulders with ease before yanking his sweat-damp undershirt overhead and tossing it aside.

“Oh,” breathes Blake, staring at Will shamelessly, reverently, like he’s a piece of art for his consumption. His lips part in a long breath as he lays his hands on Will’s body, touches tentative and feather-light at first, growing hungrier as he runs his palms over Will’s abdomen, up his sides, over his chest, his shoulders. _”Oh, fuck.”_

Will’s full-on panting now, each pass of Blake’s hands an electric current, suffusing his blood with pure arousal that’s matched by the darkness in Blake’s eyes. Vaguely aware that Blake is wearing far too many clothes, Will fumbles with his belt buckle.

“Do it,” whispers Blake. The heady sound of laboured breathing fills the room as they strip each other as quickly as possible, belts and shirts and trousers hitting the floor until they’re both down to their drawers.

Will lets Blake shove him down onto their bed, staring up as he climbs on top of him to straddle his lap. He grinds down against him, and Will lets out a long moan as his brain short circuits. He repeats the motion, again, and again, until Will’s hips are moving too, sweat beading on his forehead, heat gathering in his low belly as they rock together, and God, it’s so much better than anything he could have ever conjured in any of his fantasies.

“I want...I want,” gasps Blake as tentative fingers dip into Will's waistband. “Get these off, want to be closer.”

 _“Yes.”_ Will lifts his hips so Blake can yank off the offending undergarment and toss it unceremoniously to the ground before wriggling out of his own. Oh, _hell,_ there's _so much skin,_ bare and pretty and so, so soft, Will isn’t physically capable of processing everything nearly as quickly as he can look, as he can touch. With a burst of adrenaline, he surges up and flips them over so Blake is beneath him. He lets out a gasp, and Will slips his tongue between his lips, shuddering as their erections rub together, hot and hard and already so wet. He kisses Blake’s neck, his collarbones, his chest, making his way languidly down Blake’s body, pausing to give extra attention to a scar on his left shoulder, then one on his inner wrist, each tremble beneath his mouth an exaltation.

His heart leaps into his throat when he arrives at the mottled flesh on Blake’s abdomen, white and thick and raised, a lightning strike against the sweet, soft swell of his belly, evidence of an offence beyond compare, still raw in Will’s mind. 

“I know, it’s a bit shocking,” says Blake shakily, hands carding through Will’s hair. “It’s ugly as all hell, but it’s not as bad as it was before.”

“Nothing about you is ugly.” Will lowers his mouth to the raised flesh and kisses it, dragging his lips along the entire thing until he’s claimed it as his own. “Just proof that you’re a fighter, is all.”

Blake bites back a sob. Will looks up, alarmed to see a single tear rolling down his cheek. Horrified, he opens his mouth to fix what he’d said, but Blake just chuckles and wipes the tear and says, “I always knew you were secretly a wordsmith, Sco.”

Will smiles and nuzzles his stomach before mouthing at his lovely hips. 

“Oh, God.” Blake arches into it, prick sliding wetly against Will’s chest. “You’re so...I feel like I’m going to burst.”

“Tell me what you want,” Will murmurs against his skin. “Anything, anything you want.” 

“I want you. I want....more. Fuck, Sco, I want your mouth.”

Hearing Blake’s voice nearly break with lust over those words is almost too much for Will--he reaches between his legs and squeezes himself to keep from finishing right then and there. He’s _dreamed_ of doing this for Blake so many times, but he’s never once allowed himself to believe that it could actually happen. Blake’s propped himself up on both of their pillows, watching raptly as Will lowers his head and licks a slow, experimental stripe up his length. 

“Jesus,” he whispers, pulsing fluid onto Will’s tongue. The taste of him is enough to drive Will mad, to make him already crave more. He opens his lips and takes him into his mouth, pausing halfway down to adjust to his size before sucking him deeper, even deeper. It’s wonderfully erotic, painfully intimate, and Will opens his mouth wider, sticks out his tongue, wanting to fit as much of Blake inside him as he can manage.

Blake’s back bows against the bed and he thrusts up into his mouth. Will gags a bit, pulling off for a moment--but he finds he doesn’t mind at all. He rather enjoys it, the sensation of Blake losing control. Before Blake can issue an unnecessary apology, he returns to task, relaxing his throat as best he can, swallowing and sucking as he feels his own cock leak onto the sheets. 

It must be working, because Blake’s making the most exquisite noises as Will works, gasping and writhing. He’s fisting the sheets so tight his knuckles are white, and that simply won’t do. Drunk on desire, Will grabs his hand and places it on his head, pressing down encouragingly.

“Oh, my God.” Blake winds his fingers in his hair and pulls a little. Will groans around him, shocked at the pleasure that blazes through him at that hint of pain. 

“Fucking hell, you’re amazing,” whispers Blake, voice hoarse. He pushes Will’s head down a bit, then yanks him all the way off, and back down again. Will’s drooling copiously on Blake, down his chin, possessed by his desire to submit to his whim, always, _always._

“Fuck.” Blake stiffens, his grip on Will’s hair tightening. “Fuck, Sco, I’m gonna...fuck, _fuck, Will,_ I’m gonna—”

He tries to pull Will off, but he persists, heat flaring in his gut as he redoubles his efforts, licking and sucking until Blake comes with a gasp, releasing hot and thick in Will’s mouth. It’s a strange sensation, a bit overwhelming, but Will doesn’t let up, because this is _Blake,_ and he’s _coming,_ and it’s even more beautiful than he had ever imagined, and _Will’s_ the reason he’s panting and shaking and sweating with pleasure...it’s nearly enough to send him hurtling over his own precipice. 

When Blake has gone slack and boneless, Will relents. He looks Blake directly in the eye and swallows, every last drop. Blake’s mouth falls open, awestruck, then Will is yanked up the length of his body and pushed forcefully onto his back as Blake licks into his mouth. 

“You’re fucking incredible,” whispers Blake. “Where did you...fuck. Just amazing. Fucking gorgeous, Sco, do you even know?”

Wills already so absurdly close to coming, he can barely wrap his mind around what Blake is saying. Blake gently nibbles on his lower lip as he slides an appreciative hand down his abdomen to wrap around his prick. 

“Oh, love, you’re so hard.” Blake gives him a long tug, palm slicking with Will’s arousal. “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve thought about having you like this. Every time I touch myself, it’s only you, only ever you I’m dreaming of.”

Will digs his nails into Blake’s shoulder as his words surge through him like wildfire. “I’m going to return the favour now, if you’ll let me.” 

Will nods frantically. Blake presses a kiss to the underside of his jaw before slipping between his legs. 

It’s entirely too much, the sight of those messy dark curls, cherry lips parted around him, the hot, wet gorgeousness of Blake’s mouth...Will wants to stare, to drink it in, commit it to memory, but within moments, he has to squeeze his eyes shut and attempt to take silent inventory of the whiskies in the pub to keep from embarrassing himself. 

But Blake is incredible, _so good,_ and soon a maddening swell of pleasure builds within him, threatening to tear him apart at the seams. His chest heaves as he simultaneously wants to stave it off and chase it as fast as he can. Blake’s a picture of enthusiastic debauchery, cheeks rosy with effort, Will’s spit-slick prick sliding between his lips, then he slips a hand behind Will’s balls, then even further back, where he’s never been touched, and _rubs--_

 _“Ah--_ just there,” gasps Will, digging his heels into the sheets. “God, just like that--”

Blake presses a little harder against him, and Will throws his head back, vision whiting out as he succumbs to wave upon glorious wave of toe-curling ecstasy with a strangled cry. 

When he regains his hold on reality, Blake is splayed out beside him, face flushed, lips red, fucked out, looking for all the world like the cat that got the cream.

Will rolls onto his side and kisses him, groaning as he tastes the both of them on Blake’s tongue. 

“Just think, “ murmurs Blake, slinging a sweaty leg over Will’s hip. “We could have been doing that the whole time in France. Don’t reckon it would have won us any medals, though.”

A surprised laugh escapes from Will’s mouth at Blake’s candor. The rosiness in Blake’s cheeks intensifies, and he huffs out an answering laugh of his own.

“Absolutely ridiculous, you are,” says Will, shaking his head and cupping his face.

“I might be ridiculous,” says Blake, covering Will’s hand with his own. “But you don’t seem to mind.”

Will sighs, happier than he’s ever been in his life. “You’re right. I quite like it, come to think of it.”

“And I reckon you’ve just shown me just how much.” Blake’s grin slips slightly. “It’s more than that, too, you know.” 

“Yeah?”

“Fuck, yeah.” Blake props himself up on his elbow, pretty eyes shining, and it’s all Will can do to not crumble to pieces in disbelief that this is happening, that this is real. “I love you, too, Sco. I don’t think I said it before, but...yeah. In case it’s in any way unclear, I really, really fucking love you. Like, you’re _it_ for me, mate. You have been, too, for...oh, it’s been so long.”

Overcome, Will grabs his jaw, stares into his eyes. Everything he needs to know is there, floating in those beautiful pools of blue, like it always is, like it always has been. “And I love you, for just as long, if not longer.”

The breath audibly leaves Blake’s lungs. 

“Oh, yeah.” Emboldened, Will runs his hands over every inch of smooth, sweaty skin that he can, pulling their bodies flush. “Since 1916. Since the moment you shook my hand. I was already a goner by the time we went on our first supply run.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

Blake pulls his face down and kisses him with so much joy that Will’s incandescent with it, kissing back with unbridled, unparalleled fervor. 

In that moment, he learns that there is no taste in the world more exquisite than the willing lips of the love of your life, and no feeling more beautiful than the weight of his body in your arms.

Blake giggles a little against Will’s face, and Will can’t believe he’s lived his whole life without this. “Are we...just colossal fucking idiots, then.”

“Yes.” Will brushes their noses together. “Yes, I think we are.”

Blake wraps his arms around Will’s shoulders and they lie there, exchanging soft kisses and reverent touches, until mouths turn hungry and hands possessive. 

“Again?” Will breathes, blood rushing between his legs.

“Again,” murmurs Blake against his lips. “And again after that, and again...God, I'm never letting you sleep, or work, ever again.”

“Sounds like a plan.” 

“So glad you’re on board, Sergeant Major.” Blake shoves his legs apart and feverishly kisses his neck, mouthing at his pulse point until Will’s hard and dripping again.

They each come twice more that night. Will’s convinced that he, personally, could have gone once more, but the last orgasm of their extended tryst comes with two of Blake’s fingers crooked deep inside him, and it rocks his entire being to his core, unlike anything, to the point that a tear rolls down his cheek and he has to shove his face into a pillow to avoid waking the entire neighbourhood, possibly the entire country, and he’s rendered utterly incoherent for the better part of ten minutes.

“Oh, shit,” murmurs Will into Blake’s hair as their sweat cools and the daylight begins its slow bleed into the indigo sky. “I’ve kept you awake all night.”

“Hmm. So you have.”

He presses apologetic lips to Blake’s forehead. “But you’ll be so tired at work.”

Blake grins sleepily up at him. “And it’s already so, so fucking worth it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHEW. We did it, we made it to the porn, folks--the idiots have become lovers! Thank you so much to everybody who's been reading and commenting on this fic, as always, your generous & enthusiastic feedback has been fueling me, and the editing cryptid who resides within me, so please, if you enjoyed this installment, sustain this poor wayfaring smut peddler by dropping me a comment with your thoughts and feelings!
> 
> I'm working on the fifth chapter now, it'll be up next week--we'll say Friday, but we all know I'll probably get spicy and drop it earlier. And, as always, feel free to come yodel about these two with me on [Tumblr dot com](http://hannibalssweaters.tumblr.com/), if you're into that.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: smut (the fic continues to earn its rating), some brief internalized homophobia, light angst, coming out (sort of), fluffy feelings--happy ending, always.

“Alright, alright, you can have another go at the duck hunting game.” Charlotte laughs, shooting Blake an apologetic look. “If Tom here doesn’t mind, of course.”

“Another go at the duck hunting game! That's exactly what I was hoping you’d say.” Blake looks down at Mary and Gemma, who grab his hands in an excited frenzy. “Come on, then, ladies, let’s go before the line gets too long.”

“Thank you, Tom,” calls Charlotte as the girls drag him through the fairground like a rag doll. She shakes her head, readjusting Robbie on her hip. “Bless that man.”

“Hmm.” Will’s face heats, and he focuses his gaze straight ahead. They’re standing in the concessions line, the sun disappearing behind the trees, giving way to a lilac twilight.

“Hope he doesn’t mind that the girls have started calling him ‘uncle.’ I’m afraid they’re quite smitten.”

 _Of course they are. Who wouldn’t be?_ “Oh. No, that doesn’t bother him.”

Charlotte looks at him, really _looks_ at him. Will tries to school his features as he stares at the over-the-top hat of the woman just in front of him. He can feel his sister’s eyes narrowing. Finally, she sighs. “Alright. Are you going to tell me what’s on your mind, or am I just going to have to keep guessing?”

“Nothing’s on my mind.” 

“That’s a load of horse shit if I’ve ever heard one.”

“Charlotte!” Will looks pointedly at Robbie. 

Her eyes roll. “Oh, spare me. Seriously, Will, what is going on with you? Are you ever going to tell me what happened with Emma last week?”

Will presses his lips together. It was only a matter of time before she started to pry in earnest, and since this was the first moment they’ve had where Will couldn’t duck her with relative ease…

 _Fantastic._

“I _know_ something happened.”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You are, without a doubt, the worst liar in the world.” 

Will shifts uneasily. Christ, how long did it take to order a couple of bloody popcorns? 

“It’s not like I’m living in a bubble or anything. We talk, you know. She told me it’s not on, the two of you.” She nods as Will raises his eyebrow. “Yep. I know that much, at least.”

He presses his lips together, committing to his silence. 

“Alright, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, but I know something’s up. You’ve been acting strange all week!” She lowers her voice, eyes suddenly soft. “If it’s something else, something to do with the army...the fighting? You can tell me that, too, you know. You can tell me anything, Will.”

Bright blue eyes flicker down, then back up, open, sincere, and Charlotte looks so much like their mum that Will’s heart clenches. He bites the insides of his cheeks. While she _thinks_ she means what she says, she couldn’t _possibly._

And not just because the things that Will could tell her about his time abroad would burrow into her mind and haunt her in the quiet, in the night...stories of the filth and disease and the constant stench of blood, the mud, the ubiquitous rot, infection, and that bone-deep discomfort that wriggles its way into your skin and never goes away, to the point that comfort becomes a memory tucked away in the mania of fever dreams...the feeling of trapping a man beneath you while he’s pressing your face away with his hands, bucking desperately as you squeeze the life from his throat with your bare hands…

He’d do it all again a thousand times over to spare a _stranger_ the grim knowledge; he could never be responsible for transferring it to his beloved family. 

Tack on everything that’s been happening with Blake, the real source of his longer silences and faraway glances as of late...she couldn’t possibly understand. 

She might never look at him the same way again. She might never want to speak to him again. 

It pains him, the fact that anyone could ever find his relationship with Blake to be anything other than beautiful, powerful, utterly fucking _rapturous_...and, if he does say so himself, much warmer and far less acerbic than that of many he’s met who have been legally deemed man and wife.

Charlotte is an open-minded woman, too, a woman ahead of the times, that’s to be certain. She’s been his confidante since forever, always, but this...as much as he yearns to scream it from the rooftops, to let those closest to him know that he’s finally, _finally_ found the person he wants to spend the rest of his life with, Will’s no idiot. It’s simply not spoken of. It’s done, but only ever in the dark, and he would sooner take it to his grave than dip a toe in such uncharted waters. 

Not just for his sake, but for Blake’s.

“Thanks,” he says with a forced smile. “But I’m fine. Promise.”

“If you say so.” She frowns, unconvinced, and lays a hand on his shoulder. “I love you, you know.”

“I love you, too.”

Robbie squirms in her arms and fusses, desperately tugging at her sleeves, kicking out a foot. She puts him down and takes his little hand. “Well...I’ll certainly leave off on the Cupid front for a bit, if you’d like, but I urge you to at least reconsider things with Emma. Maybe dinner would be nice. One on one. Might make you feel better. Maybe even restore your faith in humanity.”

“Emma’s a lovely girl.” _The sun had shone through a gap in the curtain that morning, falling across Blake's face like some sort of biblical illumination. His messy dark hair fanned out against the pillow, two errant curls across his forehead, sheets slipping low enough for Will to stare at his bare chest, rising and falling with soft snores for several long moments before leaning down to kiss him awake. Sky blue eyes popped open as soft lips curved into a smile against Will’s, warm hands finding their way into his hair as he kissed him. Will had been so happy that he could have died at that moment, with their legs tangled together beneath the sheets, his tongue between Blake’s lips, the weight of his body in his arms._ “I’ll see her again, maybe even have dinner with her, but I’m telling you, truly, we are just friends. And we always have been. And we always will be.”

Charlotte rolls her eyes and inhales deeply, like she’s about to go off, so Will hastily adds, “Imagine if I were trying to get you to date, I dunno, Blake, for example. It would never work.”

“Well slow down, now.” Charlotte cocks an eyebrow and leans in. “Between the two of us, if I weren’t spoken for, I’d quite fancy taking your Blake for a little roll in the hay. He’s just adorable, that one. Sweet and polite, to boot. And it’s always the cute ones that are the wildest lovers.”

Will sputters, choking on his own saliva as Charlotte’s shoulders shake with laughter. “Oh dear, I see I’ve scandalized you once again, my dear little prude. Not to worry, I’m quite happy with this little one’s papa, God bless him, as overworked as he is--he should have been here by now, come to think of it--but I’m just saying...a decorated soldier, and so good with children? With that sweet, handsome face? My God. It’s a wonder he’s not paired up with one, or four, of the girls down the mayor’s office by now.”

 _Yes, the mind truly boggles._ Will clears his throat, shaking his head at his outrageous sister. He’s not about to confirm what she’d just said about cute lads being wild lovers aloud, but at that exact moment, he can’t help but recall a particularly graphic stream of filth that Blake had uttered in his ear in the shower the night before, which causes an entirely new coughing fit. 

Blessedly, the concession stand opens up just as he’s finished clearing his throat. What was he meant to order again? Ah. “Two popcorns, three candy flosses, and…” His eyes catch on chestnuts roasting over a grill. Blake loves those. “And a thing of those chestnuts, please.”

“Not to worry, we’ll find you someone, you awkward, handsome, uptight git,” says Charlotte with a chuckle. Robbie’s getting irritated, yanking on her hand, and she leans down soothe him. Will hands her a candy floss, which she immediately passes to a now delighted little boy. She takes a bite, explains that they are going to _share,_ and Will pays for the items. Saved by the candy floss. 

“Good evening, family!” Robert materializes beside them, leaning heavily on his cane as he greets Charlotte and Robbie with sugary little kisses. He shakes Will’s hand and helps himself to a popcorn. “Ta, Will. Now, I believe we are down two young ladies and one secretary, are we not?”

Charlotte chuckles and points. “Not for long.”

Blake’s being yanked through the crowd by Mary and Gemma, their faces alight with excitement. Gemma’s carrying a stuffed bear that she hadn’t had before, and Blake’s eyes are crinkling at the corners with laughter. His lips are moving, clearly making an effort to slow them down. He catches Will’s eyes and his grin deepens, and Will wishes with all of his heart that he could wrap him in his arms and kiss him deeply, right there, in the middle of the carnival, in front of everyone.

Instead, he pats him briefly on the shoulder. “Enjoy hunting those ducks?” 

“You know what? I did.” With a fond grin, Blake brandishes his winnings--four tickets. “It was great fun. You lot missed out. Ah, what’s this, now?”

Will hands him the roasted chestnuts. “Got you some of these. Figured you might not be one for candy floss.”

“Well, you figured wrong.” Blake pops a chestnut into his mouth. “But I do prefer these, so. Thanks.”

Will huffs a laugh, cheeks heating. He can’t seem to do much about the frequency with which he’s blushing these days, but it does seem to be at its worst whenever Blake is present. “Don’t mention it.”

Will and Blake wander the fairground with Robert and Charlotte and the children, slowly passing the concessions between them. They play a couple of games before stopping at the little petting zoo. Blake buys a carrot, and leans down to Gemma and Mary. “Ladies, did you know that your Uncle Will is a horse whisperer?”

The girls’ eyes widen simultaneously. Mary looks at Will like he’s betrayed her. “What?!”

Blake nods. “My mum’s got a farm, and your Uncle Will managed to charm her horse the very first time he met her. Got her to eat a carrot right out of his hand.”

“You never told us!” Gemma cries. 

Mary snatches the carrot from Blake’s hand and shoves it in Will’s face. “You must show us, please, Uncle!”

Blake meets Will’s narrowed eyes with an innocent gaze. _Bastard._ “Go on Sco, teach the girls how to feed the horse.”

“Oh, no, that was just the one time.” Will waves him off. “Better you do it.”

“But you’re a natural!” 

“If you say so.” He takes the carrot and breaks it in half before crouching down to show the girls how to lay their hands flat for the pony. As they squeal excitedly, Will turns back to Blake, who’s smiling at him with such tenderness that it almost takes his breath away. 

Not so long ago, Will had thought his unrequited feelings for Blake would be the death of him. Now, he’s certain that the man himself will do the trick.

“Told you you were a pro,” says Blake softly. Will’s face flushes yet again.

“A man of many hidden talents, he is,” says Charlotte with a smile, but there’s a question in her eyes that Will chooses not to acknowledge.

“Alright, reckon that’s about it for us,” says Robert, concealing a little yawn behind his hand once they’ve visited just about every animal. “This lot’s about to turn into a full-blown pumpkin patch.”

The girls whine faintly, but their eyelids droop. Robbie’s asleep in Will’s arms, drooling steadily onto his light blue shirt, and he has to make another strategic handoff to Charlotte in order to avoid waking him. 

“So, you’re going to...stay here?” Charlotte asks once she’s secured her sleeping son. 

“For the moment, yeah, I think.” Will shrugs at Blake. 

“Oh yeah, definitely gotta get another thing of those chestnuts before they close,” says Blake. 

“Alright then.” Charlotte gives them both kisses on the cheek. “Have fun. We’ll see you later.”

Once they’ve parted ways, Will and Blake vaguely meander back towards the concession stand as carnival lights flash. Blake’s clenching and unclenching his fist at his side, and Will’s heart aches in kind. He knows that Blake wants to take his hand as badly as Will wants to take his, wishing so fiercely that it could be. 

“Oy.” Blake stops in his tracks, jabbing a thumb towards a structure illuminated by a million blinking bulbs. “Wanna have a go?”

Will squints. _Hall of Mirrors._ “...Are you mad?”

Blake waggles his eyebrows. “Only a little.”

 _Absolutely ridiculous, this man._ “Alright. Whatever you like.”

Blake’s eyes sparkle as they walk over, victorious. As if Will were capable of denying him anything, ever. Blake produces his winnings from the duck hunt game, just enough tickets to gain entry, and presents them to the ornery man at the entrance. 

“We’re about to shut it down,” says the man, taking a grotesque bite of a bruised apple. “You’ll be the last two.”

“Lucky us, then,” says Blake, brandishing the tickets once more. The man shrugs, spits, and tears their tickets. 

It’s so dark inside that Blake knocks into a wall almost immediately, cane clattering to the floor. “Ah, shit.”

“You asked for this,” laughs Will, bending to pick up his cane. 

“So I did.” Blake takes it from him and fumbles for his hand. Will inhales sharply, spine going rigid.

“Not to worry, Sco. We’re the last two, didn’t you hear?”

Oh. Right. Will takes his hand, letting Blake lead them slowly through eerily lit, narrow, twisting halls. 

“You know, this is my first time in one of these,” says Blake cheerily as they turn down a new hall, a million distorted versions of themselves rippling across the walls.

“Ever?” 

“Ever.”

“In that case....” Will crowds Blake until his back hits the wall. “We ought to make it a good one.”

Blake pulls their bodies flush with a wicked grin. ”Terribly bold and rather presumptuous of you, Sco.”

“And just what are you going to do about it,” murmurs Will, brushing their noses together.

“Keep that up and you might find out.” All of the noise and the lights fade into the background as Blake’s lips find his, clutching at his shoulders as Will buries his hands in Blake’s soft curls and slips his tongue into his mouth, deep and hot and urgent. 

“We have to get out of here,” pants Blake. “Out of public. Right now.”

Will nods fervently, heart pounding. He can’t imagine going another moment without being as close as humanly possible to the man before him. It’s overwhelming, all-encompassing, and he can barely remember how he used to cope before he knew that the feeling was mutual. How had he ever managed to restrain himself for so long?

Blake gives his arm a tug.“Come on, then, love.”

“Ah!” Will sticks his free hand out in just enough time to avoid smacking clean into a trick mirror. Blake laughs at him, and they make haste through the remainder of the attraction, chuckling the entire time, dropping hands just before exiting. 

“Hope you two enjoyed that,” says the man who’d taken their tickets, eyeing them as he chucks his apple core to the ground. 

Will and Blake don’t look at him or respond. Blake shoots Will a secret smile, lips and cheeks rosy, and Will forces his eyes forward to avoid tackling him to the ground in a public display of lewdness. 

As they pass the concessions stand, Will yanks Blake back. “Your chestnuts!”

“Fuck the chestnuts.”

“Fuck the... _you_ don’t want food?”

“There’s something at home that I’d much rather have, so...can you please..?”

Will blushes head to toe, but steels himself. “You’re telling me that you aren’t going to want these later, or tomorrow?” 

“Well…” Blake huffs and crosses his arms. 

“That’s what I thought.” With unprecedented self discipline, Will tears himself from Blake’s side to order two more things of chestnuts. The concessions worker grins at him, batting her eyelashes. She must take his blush as interest, because she gives him another order on the house. 

The walk home is excruciating, and is better categorized as a half-run. Will finds himself shoved up against the door the moment it closes behind him, vision whiting out at the feeling of hands on his body, lips on his neck. 

“Hang on!” Will lifts the chestnuts overhead, away from Blake’s feverish grasp. “I don't think you understand the self control it took for me to get these bloody things for you.”

With a long-suffering sigh, Blake yanks Will’s arms down, plucks the little bags from his hands, and sets them unceremoniously on the table. “There. They’re safe now. Can you forget about the godforsaken chestnuts for long enough to fucking kiss me, please?”

Heat flares in Will’s belly as Blake crowds him against the sofa. “You’re going to be grateful for those later, you know.”

“I’d be grateful right now if you shut up and took off your trousers.”

“It’s like that, is it.” Will grins, already unbuckling his belt. He doesn’t miss the way Blake’s breathing hitches at the sound, nor the way his eyes darken as he moves to undress himself. 

“Oh, it is most definitely like that.” 

Blake pulls Will’s trousers around his ankles and pushes him down. He falls with an _oof,_ quickly forgotten as his lap is occupied by an extraordinarily aroused Tom Blake. 

“God, Sco,” he whispers, taking Will's face in his hands. “The things you do to me...I’m already leaking, you’ve barely touched me.”

Will groans. “If you keep talking like that, this is going to be over very quickly.”

“Doesn’t bother me,” breathes Blake. “Have you seen yourself? I’ll be ready for another go in ten fucking minutes.”

They grind against each other like that, on their sofa in the dark, until Will can no longer take it. Head swimming, he reaches into Blake’s drawers first, then into his own, and takes the both of them in his hand. Blake’s head tips back with an ecstatic gasp, and Will’s lips find his neck as he gives them a few long, languid strokes, collecting the fluid forming at their tips before holding his palm out. “Spit.”

“Mmm. Yes, sir.” Blake’s pupils bloom ink-black as he obeys, pushing a globule of saliva through kiss-swollen lips. 

“Yeah.” Blake braces himself on Will's shoulders as he rolls his hips. “Fuck, Sco, that’s good.”

“Shhh, the windows are open,” gasps Will, desire shooting up his spine at the sensation of sliding against Blake through hot spit. 

Blake lets out a whine and drops his head onto Will’s shoulder, hips stuttering a bit as he pants out little curses. That telltale heat is coiling in Will’s gut faster than he’d planned, but he can’t stop it, nor does he want to. It’s been like this every night since that first time--and some mornings--kissing and touching and feverishly bringing each other off in as many creative ways as they can manage, and it’s fucking _bliss,_ and Will still can’t believe he’s allowed to have Blake like this, to hold him in his arms and taste his sweat and swallow his gasps and feel him--

“Oh, _fuck.”_ Blake’s fingers twist in Will’s sweaty shirt. “I’m gonna come.”

“Fuck. Yes.” Will maneuvers his hand so he’s only touching Blake, wanking him hard and fast, relishing in the light tremors of Blake’s thighs. 

“Oh, fuck, I’m gonna...I’m gonna come all over you, Sco.” 

“Come, come,” says Will, voice harsh, cock dripping at Blake’s filthy mouth. He tilts his head up to capture every last one of Blake’s gasps in his mouth, tugging him furiously until he crushes their lips together and comes copiously over Will’s hand and onto his lap. 

Will's still reeling from the sensation of Blake coming on him when Blake collects his release in his palm, and reaches between Will’s thighs. 

“Oh, fuck.” He flops back against the couch, arching into Blake’s sinful fist. 

“Is that good?” Blake’s panting on Will’s face, stroking him just the way he likes it. 

“It’s so good, so good.” 

“Fucking hell, you’ve no idea what you look like right now.” Blake mouths across his jawline, pushes his shirt up to rub a hand over Will’s abdomen. “You’ve no fucking idea what you do to me. Christ, I think I’m getting hard again." 

Will squeezes his eyes shut and clenches his fists in the cushions. Blake twists his hand, and they both gasp. “Mmm, you’re so wet, baby, go on, come, please, let me see you come.” 

"I'm close." Will splays a possessive palm on Blake’s arse, squeezes hard, and bares his throat. “Bite me, please, please.” 

Blake obeys, licking long and lewd up the column of his neck, savouring his sweat before sucking sensitive flesh into his mouth and biting down, _hard._

With a shameless moan, Will thrusts up into Blake’s hand and lets his orgasm rip through him, and fuck, it’s so, so intense, just like it always is with Blake, just like it always will be. 

“You are so fucking gorgeous,” whispers Blake against his lips as they come down. “I want to fuck you all the time.” 

Will exhales a laugh, spent prick making a valiant effort towards another go. “Trust me, the feeling’s quite mutual.” 

Once they’re both washed up, Will emerges from the bathroom to find Blake standing in the kitchen in his underwear, reading the paper, wolfing down roasted chestnuts as the teakettle boils on the stove. 

His heart all but stops in his chest at the sight. He leans against the doorframe, unable to stop the smile spreading across his face. “Told you you’d want those later.” 

“Once again you’ve got me sorted.” Blake pops two chestnuts into his mouth and winks at Will. “My voice of reason, you are.” 

“That’s me.” 

Will helps Blake eat nearly two entire things of chestnuts as they drink two large cups of chamomile tea in companionable near-silence. As they lie in bed in the darkness, he silently thanks anyone who might be listening for granting him this, burying his nose in Blake's hair as he slips into his subconscious with a smile on his face. 

*** 

“I know it doesn’t make logical sense right now, but, fuck! I miss them, you know?” 

“I understand completely, I do.” 

“No you don’t. You didn't grow up with them!” 

“I’m not saying we can never get a dog, but at this moment, with our work schedules, who would be home to take care of him? Look at this place, I can’t very well bring him down here, now can I? Perhaps you could interest the mayor in a canine assistant, coming round every day to help you with the correspondence, though, hmm?” 

Blake rolls his eyes, grumbling “party pooper,” into his whisky. 

“I’m just saying we’ve got to figure a few things out before we come home with a brand new puppy and absolutely no idea how to manage taking care of him and keeping our work schedules.” 

“I know, I know. You’re bloody well right. Plus, we certainly aren’t living on some large expanse of land or anything either. They could get terribly cooped up.” He looks forlornly into his glass. 

“You really don’t have to stay down here if I’m making you feel glum.” Will pulls a few rogue bottles of syrup and bitters out from under the counter and plops them in front of Blake. “I won’t be much longer.” 

“I’ve got nowhere to be,” says Blake with a wry smile. “Plus it’ll be right boring upstairs without you, this is much better. Even if you are vetoing my amazing ideas.” 

“Not vetoing, just suggesting we think it through a bit more first. Perhaps when we’re less addled by booze.” Will tops off Blake’s whisky and bends to look under the bar for anything he missed, that he or one of the other barkeepers had stashed there during a particularly busy night. 

“Well fuck me. You really can’t beat that view.” Blake’s leaning over the bar, eyeing Will’s arse with his tongue between his teeth. 

“That’s it, I’m cutting you off.” 

“In vino veritas, Sco.” 

“Hush, you.” Tom Blake, beacon of ridiculousness. Blushing profusely, Will hauls the rogue bottles into the back room. He’s nearly finished with inventory, can’t be more than a few opened boxes left to count. He pulls a box of Bordeaux bottles down from the top shelf and scans his notepaper for the numbers, checks it off, then proceeds to do the same with the pinot gris and one misplaced crate of Irish beer. 

He turns at the sound of a throat clearing behind him. Blake’s in the doorway, fiddling with his hands. 

“Don’t tell me you can’t be left alone for ten minutes now,” says Will, shoving the crate beneath the shelves where it belongs. 

“Maybe I can’t," he says walking towards him, eyes open, longing. 

Will looks around surreptitiously. He’d locked the front door when he’d closed for the night, and it’s not like there were any windows in the back room, yet he hesitates. 

“Come on, Sco.” Blake backs him up against a wall stacked with kegs. “Just kiss me a bit, please? I’ve been dying to kiss you all bloody day, and you look so, so fucking good right now, you have no idea.” 

“Suppose I could do that.” _Just for a moment._ Will tips his chin down as Blake rises up to press a hungry kiss to his lips. God, Will’s half thought that the excitement would be gone by now, or at least fading, now that days have stretched into weeks together, but no. 

Every single time their lips meet, it's nothing short of explosive. 

“I missed you all day,” murmurs Blake, sinking his hands into Will’s too-long hair, rubbing calloused fingertips against his scalp. “And God, how I love you.” 

“And I love you.” Will pulls Blake around, reversing their positions, pressing him against the cool surface of the kegs as he takes his face in his hands and parts his lips with his tongue, arousal blazing inside of him. 

Blake’s hands slide down Will’s back to grab his rear, giving it an appreciative squeeze. Will groans a little, and Blake pulls him closer, grinding shamelessly up against his thigh. 

“Oh, fuck! Will?” 

The warmth building within Will turns to ice and shatters, heart leaping into his throat. He whirls around, vision tunneling a bit at the sight of Robert, frozen in the doorway, a notepad in one hand and his cane in the other. Robert’s eyes bug out and he drops the notepad. “Oh, fuck! _Tom?”_

Oh, no, no, no. _Not like this._

For a moment that feels like an hour, they stand there, staring at one another. Will can’t think, he can’t breathe. He can only position his body between Robert and Blake, a meagre attempt to obscure Blake from whatever wrath is surely about to befall them. 

Finally, Robert speaks. “You...you? And Tom..?" 

“What are you going to do?” Will can’t believe how terrified he sounds, heart constricting at the feeling of Blake’s fingers curling around his forearm. 

“I don’t...” Robert swallows, furrowing his brow. “Er, I came to see if you needed help with inventory. I didn’t know you were...I didn’t know you wouldn’t be alone.” 

“I can explain." Will's rapid-fire pulse drowns out his own voice in his ears. 

Robert averts his eyes. “No need, I...I’ll take the register and go, alright?” 

Will’s chest tightens in a panic. He’d tell Charlotte, that’s certain, thus beginning the horrible downward spiral of Will losing his family. Robert’s already out at the register, opening it with a loud clang. Nearly tripping over his feet, Will runs after him. “Wait, Robert--” 

“Will, it’s...I don’t…” He shakes his head, face the colour of a tomato. “I’m not sure what to say.” 

“What...what happens now?” 

He doesn’t answer, but the crease between his eyebrows deepens. 

“Please, just...don’t tell Charlotte.” 

A pained expression crosses Robert’s face. “Will...” 

“Can I just...can it be me, who tells her?” An ire Will hasn’t felt in years sparks to life in his chest, rushing through him like the sea. “Can I at least have control over that one, small thing?” 

“I’m not trying to...I wouldn’t...it’s none of my business, and I don’t--” 

“You’re goddamn right it’s none of your business.” Red bleeds into his line of sight as outrage eclipses his fear, a million horrible outcomes unfolding upon one another in his mind’s eye, and for what? Because people don’t understand what he has, what he and Blake have? “What we have, what this is...not that I even owe you an explanation, but we went through everything together, Tom and I. Everything! You couldn’t possibly...it’s deeper than anything you’ve ever known in your life, it’s transcendent, it’s everything, _he_ is everything, and I’d rather drop dead on the spot than listen to you disparage it, degrade it with meaningless words borne by lack of compassion, lack of--” 

“Sco.” Blake’s beside him, a gentle hand on his shoulder. Robert’s staring at him, lips parted in surprise, something akin to hurt in his eyes. 

“How long have we known each other now, Will?” Robert shakes his head, softening. “I wasn’t going to say...look. This doesn’t make a difference to me, alright? I just...I just wasn’t expecting it, is all.” 

Will gapes at him. 

_This doesn’t make a difference to me._

Will blinks once, twice. “...Sorry, what?” 

Robert throws his hands in the air, mildly crazed. “Why should I care if you fancy blokes? I suppose it's not the norm, to say the least, but...it’s neither here nor there to me. You’re still the same man I knew yesterday. You're still the person I’ve known since, what must it be now, the beginning of time. You’re my brother, Will. And you, and Tom--” he gestures to Blake “--God, you know, this really makes a fuck load of sense now that I think about it. I’ve never seen two people get on better, you’re bloody perfect for one another. It’s quite nice, now that I think about it.” 

Will’s still ready to volley back something defensive before he registers what Robert’s said. He turns back to Blake, who raises his eyebrows incredulously. “Er. What?” 

“Now that I’m aware of...you know, this. It all makes quite a bit of sense.” 

“Are you...serious?” 

“I said what I said, didn’t I?” 

A bit of the tension crumbles from Will’s rigid posture like dust. “So...you’re not...you don’t think...” 

"No. I’m just...surprised. Sort of. Although now that I think about it, it’s not very surprising at all. Just...God, please, do me a favour and talk to Charlotte. Please?” 

Will nods slowly. 

“Alright, then. Good. That’s that, I suppose. Jesus. I’ll be seeing you, then. Ah. Good night.” Robert grabs the envelope from the register, shakes his head, chuckles, and gives them a feeble wave before hightailing it out of the bar. 

For a long moment, Will stares at the space where Robert had been, blood rushing in his ears. A little whimper beside him reminds him that he is not alone. He turns to Blake, who’s bracing himself on the bar. “I...reckon that could have been a whole lot worse.” 

“Yeah, just a bit! Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.” Blake clutches his chest. “I can’t...fuck. I can’t believe that just fucking happened.” 

“Nor I. I...I certainly didn’t expect that. Any of it.” 

“Jesus Christ.” Blake runs fraught hands through his hair. “Please, tell me we can go upstairs. I’m about to have a fucking heart attack.” 

“Yeah. I’m finished. Let’s go.” 

Will locks the pub with shaky hands only to unlock their flat with even shakier hands. Robert’s acceptance, though unexpectedly lovely, though it bodes well, does not necessarily guarantee Charlotte’s acceptance. There’s still time for Will to fuck all of this up, for all of this to be pulled out from underneath their feet. The thought of this sudden confrontation of the harsh reality of living as a man in love with another man driving Blake away sinks deep, wicked hooks into Will, paralyzing him, and before he knows what’s happening, he’s slumping down against the wall, breath coming out in heavy, audible exhales. 

“Sco? Hey, Sco!” Blake’s kneeling beside him, dark brows knitted together. “What's going on, love? You need to talk to me.” 

“It’s too much.” Will’s chest is on fire, lungs closing. “It’s all so much. It isn’t...I’m not worth it.” 

“What are you on about?” 

“This!” Will gestures animatedly between the two of them. “This is...God, Blake. We’ve been living in a bubble of our own making. This isn’t normal, it’s not _right,_ not in the eyes of...just because Robert said what he did, doesn’t mean that everyone’s going to feel that way. No one is! It’s going to be...it’s...your life, being with me….it’s going to be difficult. This...I...I’m going to make your life very difficult. Impossible, really.” 

“Sco, I--” 

“It’s going to be impossible to explain!” The current of his unraveling nerves pull words from him in a heady rush. “No one’s ever really going to understand, and even if they try, there’s always going to be...you’ll be throwing your life away, and for what, for me--?” 

A small hand over his mouth dams his rambling. _”Throwing my life away?”_ His voice is small, high. “Are you...do you not...fuck, Sco, throwing my life away? You _are_ my life, you are...you know what. Here. Get up, alright? That’s it. Let’s get up. Here we are, right on the sofa. Alright. Sit there. I’m going show you something, okay?” 

Will nods dumbly, sinking into worn cushions as he vaguely registers Blake rummaging through desk drawers. When he returns, his lips are pressed together in a tight line, crisply folded paper in his hand. 

Will stares for a moment before his eyes go wide. “Is that…” 

“Yes.” Blake clutches the papers against his chest. “You have to promise not to laugh. And actually mean it, this time.” 

“I’d _never.”_

“Alright. Okay.” Blake takes a ginger seat beside Will, unfolds the pages, and hands them over with a shaky exhale. 

_I’ve heard people say that hell is of this earth, of our own making. I never agreed with it until I went abroad. It’s a radical thing to behold, hell on earth, its duality--the beauty of the French countryside riddled with the horrors of war, bodies and shells strewn across lush fields like stones from the cherry trees. And for what?_

_I still can’t tell you the reason for the fighting, or even begin to theorize, but I can tell you, with no small level of surprise, that I am glad that I was there. I’m glad for the madness, the terror, the pain, all of it, for if I had not been plunged into such depths of complete and total darkness, I never would have seen the bright light amongst it all._

_I’m going to spell it out for you because, while you are so very smart, you are somehow also an absolute idiot at times, especially when it comes to picking up signals. The bright light is you, of course. Of course it’s you._

_Meeting you was the single best thing to happen to ever happen to me. I was so scared that day, covering it up as best I could with stupid jokes and stupider stories (surely fooling no one), but the moment I shook your hand, I just knew it was going to be alright. I don’t know how I knew, especially since I’m fairly certain you were irritated with me for just about every moment of every day we spent together at first, but I did. Your presence brought me an unending source of comfort during one of the worst times in my life._

_It still brings me that comfort today._

_We’re the best of mates, and that’s all we’ll ever be, but I have to tell you somehow, some way, that not a day goes by where I don’t look at you and dream of something more. It was like that back then, too. I was careful, you’ve got to give me that, I don’t think you ever saw me staring. At least I don’t think you did._

_But trust me when I say that I did stare, long and often, so much so that when I laid awake at night, desperately praying for sleep that never came, I would close my eyes and picture the narrow slope of your nose, the pout of your lips, your chin, your jawline. Your ears that kind of stick out a bit, or at least they did, when your hair was still short. I’d think about how safe I felt when you stood beside me, how warm I felt when you laid beside me, out in the grass, by the trees._

_I think about that still, now, when you’re lying beside me at night, sleeping peacefully, close enough to touch, but never within reach. I’m not complaining, I promise (perhaps I’m complaining a little, but I am only human). I am endlessly grateful for our friendship, and for the fact that you’ve let me come this close._

_I think about that day when I woke up in the hospital, and they told me I was out of the woods. They told me you’d dragged me to the aid post. They told me you’d saved my life. You dragged my limp, half-conscious, barely alive body through the fields, to safety. My card was almost drawn, and you reshuffled the deck. I doubt there are words in any language to tell you how that makes me feel._

_But I can tell you that each day I come home to you, in our flat, is the happiest day of my life. One of these days, I have to find a way to make sure you know that. Really know it._

_I know one day you’ll love someone as much as I love you, and she’ll love you back with all of her heart. Perhaps you’ve already found her. I can’t say I look forward to it, watching you move out, move on. But you deserve it. You deserve to start a proper family of your own, to sleep beside someone you adore. I will be there for all of it, or some of it, or (hopefully not) none of it. However much you need, I will give._

_Because you are the bravest man I’ve ever known, with the kindest soul and the sweetest heart. You are, quite literally, the reason my heart’s still beating in my chest. You saved my life, in so, so many ways, and I can’t even begin to repay you. But I will never stop trying._

_I know it will never be, you and I, but I count myself lucky to have met you at all, and to have lived such a wonderful life with you, and to keep on living it up until the very end._

_You are, without a doubt, the love of my life, Will Schofield._

_Oh._ Will’s not sure exactly when he started crying, but as he reads the final line of Blake’s paper over and over, tears drip onto the page, smudging the ink. He clears his throat, wiping his face with his sleeve. “When, ah, when did you write this?” 

“Some time last month.” Blake casts his gaze down. “I don’t typically write that kind of stuff when I’m up at night, but it just came over me and I had to get it out. Was a bit drunk, if I'm honest. I meant to tear it up, burn it, but I never quite managed--oof!” 

Will's yanking Blake close, pulling him halfway into his lap. He hides his face against Blake's ear and whispers, “Do you mean it?” 

“Of course I do. Every last word.” 

Will closes his eyes, rubbing his wet cheek against Blake’s unblemished skin. “You’re a wonderful writer, you know.” 

“I’m shit,” laughs Blake, pressing a kiss to his jawline. “It’s shit. Just banged it all out in one go.” 

Will tries to silence him with a kiss, but Blake holds back, tipping his chin up to meet his gaze. “I might be younger than you, but I wasn’t born yesterday. Don’t you ever, ever think that I’ve done something without realizing exactly what I’m doing. With you, I mean. You are...I’ve wanted this for so, so long. And I’m not a fucking idiot. I know something about the cruelty of this world. I know it’s...I know it’ll be hard. A lot harder than Robert. But I also know that whatever comes our way is going to be fucking worth it. Because…” 

Blake swallows hard, lower lip quivering. “Because it’s you and me, and there’s nothing we haven’t been able to conquer together. Not even death. You fucking...you reshuffled the deck, love.” 

A thousand vises grip Will’s heart for one excruciating moment before it explodes. He kisses Blake until his lips stop trembling and he's got one hand buried in his hair, mouth open, gasping, eager. There’s nothing, nothing, _nothing_ in the world that has ever or could ever, ever affect him in this way, crashing over him like a tidal wave until he's forsaken all that he grew up understanding, compelling him to unlearn, relearn, be better.

“Well,” he whispers. “When you put it like that…” 

“Mmm. Reckon I might have a way with words after all." Blake's lips quirk up in a smile. "I do think we should be focusing on how lucky we are that your brother-in-law is entirely too progressive for our time, rather than lamenting things that might or might not come to pass.” 

“As usual, you’re right.” 

“As usual, eh? Hang on, let me just write that one down real fast." 

“'As usual' was perhaps just a slip of the tongue.” 

“I can think of a better use for your tongue, if you’re amenable.” 

"There's nothing you could ask of me that I would not willingly give," murmurs Will, shifting to pin Blake beneath him. "Especially not something that sounds as enticing as what you just said." 

"Mmm. In that case, we'd best get to it. You've got your work cut out for you, my love." 

Will lets out a laugh, breathy, ecstatic, as he kisses the roguish grin from Blake's lips, all of his earlier doubts fading behind him, as ephemeral as footprints along the shoreline. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ta da, chapter 5! I am so sorry I made you wait extra for this update, life has been...well, you know. Thanks for sticking with me!
> 
> That being said, the entire rest of the fic has been parsed into chapters (you can see I've updated the chapter count from 5 to 7), so you're getting one more chapter and an epilogue. I am almost finished with the editing for chapter 6, and will be posting it ASAP, as a treat! Please, please, please sustain this poor wayfaring smut and feels peddler by dropping me a comment with your thoughts and feelings if you enjoyed this!
> 
> And, as always, feel free to come yodel about these two with me on [Tumblr dot com](http://hannibalssweaters.tumblr.com/). And, er, happy Easter and happy Pesach, if that's your thing.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: graphic horror/gore & some angst & violence (in the context of a nightmare), hurt/comfort, graphic smut, coming out.

It’s not a particularly sunny day, but that doesn’t stop a balmy spring heat from leaching its way beneath Will’s clothes. He’s already uncomfortable, between new sweat beading on top of that which is already itchy and dry, and the perpetual dampness of rough, filthy fabric, but he hardly spares it a passing thought. Daily discomfort has been a given for so long, he’s all but forgotten the alternative. 

Besides, Will’s still trying to exorcise the distinct dust-taste from his bone-dry mouth, the watery burn from his eyes, even though the Hun bunker is long behind him now. What he wouldn’t give for a canteen or five full of glorious, glorious water. 

But it could be worse. It could always be worse. 

It could be raining. It could be cold.

He could be alone. 

But it isn’t, and he’s not. 

Blake’s here, yammering on about cherries: the various species, the different tastes, a wealth of knowledge that never would have otherwise entered Will’s periphery. He can’t help but smile.

Blake is _beautiful_ when he’s speaking about something that excites him, there’s not another word for it. Will can’t stop looking at him, at his sweet little profile with its upturned nose, at the tuft of dark hair poking out beneath his helmet to glint in the sunlight. The spectre of boyhood joy that possesses him as he tells Will about his family’s orchard is enchanting and heartbreaking in equal measure. He’s so young, so soft, so categorically unsuited for these dark and ruthless times.

Upon discovery that the farmhouse sharing land with the orchard is abandoned, Will lets out a breath he’s been holding since No Man’s Land. His relief is short-lived, quickly snuffed out but a cold blanket of fear as he catalogues the disarray. Others had been here, and not long ago. A doll lies on the floor, so similar to the dollies that Mary and Gemma play with at home, gaping up at him with shell hole eyes. He’s not a superstitious man, he never has been, but there’s something about this place...it’s an energy that he cannot see, a feeling that he cannot place, and it forces every hair on the back of his neck to stand on end. 

They shouldn’t be here. They shouldn’t stay here. 

“Did you find any food?” 

Will startles. Blake’s appeared beside him like a phantom, looking up at him expectantly. Dread begins to coil in Will’s gut.

He tastes milk on his tongue, sweet and fresh, a brief respite from their reality, and God, he knows what’s coming. Why aren’t they leaving? Why are they still here?

He can’t see this again, he can’t live through this again--

The milk turns to ashes in his mouth as a plane smolders across the sky. It hits the barn with enough force to send Will careening through the air, suspended, helpless, for one breathless, eternal moment before hitting the ground with a thud.

The gash in his hand throbs his heartbeat into the bandage, but Will hardly registers the pain as he gets to his feet, head pounding, ears ringing, every muscle in his body aching as he looks over to Blake. He’s fine, thank God, thank God he’s fine, then they’re heaving a burning man from the aircraft that would have otherwise served as his tomb, dragging him across the grass.

_You must shoot him! Put him out of his misery!_

Why don’t they shoot him?

Round blue eyes swallow him whole, pleading _no, no,_ so Will ignores every instinct screaming in his battered mind and instead pumps filthy well water into his helmet, and oh, no, something terrible is going to happen, the dread a cancerous lump inside him. He shouldn’t have gone off, it’s going to happen, any moment now...

There comes the cry that slows time to a sickening crawl. Will turns, heart shattering like a teacup in his chest at the sight of the knife plunged deep into Blake’s soft abdomen. It slides out, shiny with blood, Blake’s blood, dripping red onto the earth as Blake clutches his gut. The pilot stabs again, and again, sticking the blade in deep and slicing, gutting him, the wet squelch and plop of viscera falling to the ground drowned by the sound of Blake’s shrieks ricocheting inside the asylum of Will’s head.

He charges, _too late,_ firing off two fatal shots, sending the German pilot straight to hell. 

No, no, no, God, please, no, not this, not this, anything but this. 

“You should have shot him sooner!” Blake cries, clutching his guts in his hands, face already gone pale. “Why didn’t you shoot him sooner?”

“I--I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” A buzzing registers, high and unforgiving, in his brain as he presses gauze to the wound with trembling, impotent hands. Hot blood rushes from the incision and pours over Will’s fingers like undammed rapids.

“They’ll never fix me up now, they’ll never fix me up…”

_God no, not you, not like this. My best friend, the one who understands me like no one has, the one who’s been by my side, who’s saved my life, God, I can’t lose you like this._

Will can’t even cry as he hauls Blake to his feet, fueled by pure adrenaline, hands slipping in Blake’s blood. He can’t do it, though.

Blake’s already dead weight, leaden against the fragrant countryside grass. 

Will’s just one man, he’ll never be able to carry him. Even if he had the strength, he couldn’t possibly hold him, not with so much blood, how can one body bleed this much, how can Blake bleed so much, his best friend, his Blake, the one he loves most in the world--

“Put me down, you bastard!”

They fall backwards, into puddles of blood and viscera and sopping wet dressings.

“You have to try to keep moving,” he tries, grabbing for more bandages that become as useless as their predecessors the moment he applies them. 

“Let’s just sit...let me sit…”

“We can’t! We have to find the Second...remember? Your brother? We have to go now!”

Blake’s eyes roll in their sockets, chest and belly deflating ghoulishly as blood gushes over Will’s hands, into his lap. God, not like this, not here, not while Will is right here, not when he can save him.

Will wraps Blake in his arms, a strength he hadn’t imagined possible allowing him to lift off the ground. Yes, this is right, he can carry him, they can make it to the Aid Post, it’s not very far at all...

_It’s not very far at all..._

Blake howls in pain, and Will has no choice but to drop him, watching as scarlet embers from the burning barn settle in the red goop around them like flower petals. The light leaves Blake’s eyes as his breathing slows, and Will doesn’t carry him again, just holds him, cradling his head as he watches him turn stiff and cold. 

As Blake huffs his last laboured breaths, the skin on his face turns sallow, hanging loosely from his bones like he’s been dead for months. Will recoils, terror shooting up his spine, but skeletal fingers tighten in his own. “When you write to my mum, tell her it was your fault, Sco. Tell her you did this.”

“I didn’t mean--I didn’t--”

 _”Your fault, Sco.”_ A sickening final breath rattles forth from Blake’s chest. Sky blue eyes cloud over and sink into his skull, leaving soulless voids in their wake. Rivulets of blood pour out, washing over Will, anchored in place by the mangled body in his arms, decomposing fingers clenched in his own.

Overcome by grief, Will stares down at the grotesque face of his best friend, his love, all the things he never got to say just a breath out of reach.

Before he can do anything about it, Blake’s body bloats like a waterlogged corpse, pallid skin stretching, stretching, then it bursts.

Will opens his mouth to scream for help, but no sound comes out as a river of blood and viscera swirls around him, sweeping him away in a raging current. He’s reaching out, arms flailing, weak, gasping for breath as his mouth is flooded with hot, coppery liquid.

This isn’t right.

_“Sco.”_

He opens his eyes, stomach lurching at the sight of bright crimson surrounding him, hot, viscous, putrefying. Panic suffuses him as he reaches out for something, anything to hold onto, to anchor him to reality as the river of blood carries him through the French countryside, twisted trees oozing thick vermilion sap from gnarled trunks. Finally, he finds something solid, a log, and pulls it into himself, struggling to breathe as snowy blossoms float alongside him, catching on his sleeve, on his hand, their delicate veins running red with blood.

He’s sinking, he’s sinking now, and he shoots his arms and legs out to swim, but the river’s too strong--his head goes under.

With a gag, he resurfaces, spewing hot fluid from his mouth as it blinds him. Trembling hands grab hold of something, and he hurtles up, leaning his chest against it, choking as he bobs on the surface. He blinks the blood from his eyes and recoils--he’s lying on top of a swollen corpse, a thousand more like it bobbing across the surface, each one of them bearing Blake’s face with cigarette burns for eyes.

His grasp slips and the hellish river takes him again, forcing him under, blood and cherry blossoms filling his mouth his nose his ears until he can’t breathe, he can’t breathe--

“Sco. Sco!”

Will’s mouth is still tangy with blood as his eyes fly open, cold terror twisting inside of him. He flings his arm out to the side, half expecting the stiffness of a corpse, crying out as his hands fall upon a warm weight, his tether to reality. 

“Hey, Sco, hey.” The light beside the bed goes on, and Blake’s sleep-mussed hair and round, frightened eyes come into view. “Shh, it’s alright, it’s alright.”

“Blake?” Will clutches at him with shaking hands, pulling his body close. “Are you--am I--is it you? Are you here? Are you really here?”

“Yes, love, it’s me, I’m here. I’m here with you. You’re alright, it’s alright.” Sweet kisses press against Will’s sweat-slick forehead. “Were you dreaming about France?”

“No...and yes. It was...I saw the plane, and I saw you...it was horrible, you were--you didn’t make it, I didn’t make it, oh God, it was horrible--” Will’s voice breaks on a pitiful sob. He covers his face with his hands as he lets out another, and another, the image of Blake’s dead face and burnt out eyes emblazoned on his eyelids like a curse. “It was my fault, that you were stabbed. I should have...I shouldn’t have left you, I shouldn’t--”

“Oh, love, no. No. It wasn’t your fault. You’re the reason I’m still here.” Blake gently pries Will’s hands from his face and loosely entwines their fingers. “If you hadn’t been there, I would’ve been done for.”

Will turns away as a fresh wave of hot tears cascade down his face. 

“Don’t cry, love, look at me, look at me.” Blake presses Will’s hand to his chest. “Can you feel that? Feel my heart beating? You saved my life, you saved me.”

Overcome, Will splays his palm over Blake’s beloved heart. _Thump thump. Thump thump. Thump thump._ Will’s breathing begins to even out to the rhythm of Blake’s heartbeat, strong and sure. “You...it was so real, it was so real.”

“I know, I know. But it isn’t, whereas I am. And you are.”

Will spreads his fingers wider and lets out a relieved, if incredulous, laugh. “It was just a dream. Just a stupid, horrible dream.”

“That’s right, that’s right.” Blake smiles, lopsided, and kisses Will’s forehead, his temple, his cheeks. “Feel my heart. Feel how it’s beating for you. Because of you.” 

As the intensity of his grief and terror ebbs into a solace so pure he could cry again, Will pulls Blake down to crush their lips together. The sleep-sweetness of Blake’s soft lips eclipse the sickly salt of his tears and suddenly, it’s not enough, it’s nowhere near enough. They’ll never be close enough. 

“Sco,” gasps Blake as Will reaches down between his legs. “Sco, wait—”

“I’m tired of waiting.” Will rubs him, relishing in his full-body shudder. “I need you. God, Blake, I need...I need you now.”

“Are you sure?”

Will meets his eyes, biting the inside of his cheeks to stop a fresh onslaught of tears. “I’m sure.”

“Alright, love, alright.” Blake strokes his thumbs over tear-stained cheekbones. “What can I do? What do you need?”

“I need to feel you inside of me.” The words fly from Will’s mouth of their own accord, like he’s drunk, but God, he’s never been more sober in his life. Blake inhales sharply. They’ve not done this yet, though they’ve discussed it. In this moment, Will can’t imagine it happening any other way. “Please, Tom.”

“You want me to...you’d _let_ me..?”

“Yes, I want you to.”

“Oh, God. Yes. Alright.” Blake’s eyes go wide. “Shall I...alright, shall I start with my fingers?”

“Yes.” Will swallows hard. “Or I could do it, if you’d rather...”

“No, no.” Blake leans down and slips his tongue into Will's mouth. “I want to do it.”

“Please,” he murmurs, an incurable longing unspiraling in his chest. “Please, touch me.” 

“I’ve got you, love, I’ve got you.” Blake coaxes Will’s hips up to slide his pillow underneath his low back and reaches for the tin of Vaseline. Will draws his knees up to his chest to give Blake better access. For a long moment, he just _stares_ at Will, lips parted, reverence and heat written on his face. 

“Blake,” whispers Will, nearly squirming under the scrutiny.

The earnest face that Will loves more than anything gazes up at him as gentle hands replace Will’s on the backs of his thighs. “Can I...can I try something?”

“Yes.” Will nods vehemently. “Anything.”

“Fuck, alright.” Blake’s mouth trails down his tremulous flesh. “Lie back, love, let me take care of you.”

The entirely unexpected, entirely lovely sensation of Blake’s hot tongue against Will’s opening evokes an involuntary gasp from parted lips. 

Blake pauses. “Is this alright?”

 _“Yes.”_ Will lets his head fall back as he tilts his pelvis up. “Please, keep going.”

“Good.” Blake exhales in relief with a crooked grin. “I love how sensitive you are here,” he murmurs, running a thumb over his rim before lowering his head once more. His tongue is tentative at first, experimental, teasing, but as Will’s nerves ignite and his body yields to him, he grows bolder, lapping at him with broad, languorous strokes. Besieged by sensation, Will fists a hand in Blake’s curls as he pants out, “Yes, yes--don’t stop.”

Blake groans against him and opens his mouth wider. He pushes his tongue _inside,_ kissing his hole like he might kiss his mouth, and _fuck,_ it’s so intense, Will could finish like this—riding Blake’s talented tongue, tremulous thighs parting shamelessly under Blake’s hands, moaning, dripping sweat, every thought in his head replaced by Blake, every fiber of his being inundated with Blake, Blake, _Blake._

He turns his face into his bicep to muffle a cry at the feeling of a slick finger against him. “Are you ready for my fingers?”

“Yes. Please.”

“God, you look gorgeous, Sco, fucking gorgeous.” Blake lets out a noisy breath and nibbles on Will’s inner thigh as he dips the tip of his finger just inside. Delicious anticipation licks up Will’s spine at the familiar sensation. He bucks into the touch, biting his lip as Blake’s finger slides the rest of the way in with ease. 

He nearly shoots off the bed at the feeling of Blake’s lovely, wet mouth engulfing his prick, then there’s a second finger slipping into his body. Will squeezes his eyes shut, muscles clenching around the intrusion, then Blake does something with his tongue and his fingers push in _so deep,_ rubbing against the spot that ties his tongue and curls his toes until a hot bead of fluid runs down his aching cock. 

“Now,” he hears himself rasp, reaching up for the headboard as stars burst before his eyes. “I need you now, please, Blake.”

“Yeah?” Blake eases his fingers out. Will misses them instantly. “Are you certain, sweetheart?”

 _More certain than I’ve ever been._ “Yes.”

“Alright, love. I’ve got you.” Blake kneels between Will’s thighs as he slicks himself, staring down at him with such palpable urgency and hunger that Will nearly melts into the sheets. Their breaths hang heavy and laboured between them as Blake positions himself, eyes never leaving Will’s as he slowly, slowly, pushes in. 

_It’s so much._

Will gasps and wraps a hand around Blake’s bicep, tensing. It’s a profound stretch, a divine burn, and so, so much more than Blake’s fingers. 

“Oh, God.” Blake stills his hips, panting hard. “Oh, God, Sco, is this alright? Do you want me to stop?”

“Don’t stop.” Will breathes deeply, hitching on the exhale as his body opens for Blake. “Please, don’t stop.”

With a breathy groan, Blake gently swivels his hips, inching deeper, and Will’s thighs begin to tremble. “Oh, love. Oh, love, you feel so good,” he murmurs, kissing his face as he strokes in deep, igniting a potent shock of pleasure at the base of his spine. Will can’t stop the cry that spills out, and Blake repeats the motion, again, and again, and once more, until the pain and pleasure blur together to form something unrecognizable that makes all rational thoughts fly from Will’s head. 

He’s never been much for religion, but as he wraps his legs around Blake’s waist and throws his arms around his strong shoulders, surrendering himself to the aching intimacy of being filled by the person he loves most in the world, he thinks this must be heaven: every blood-hot inch of Blake’s skin pressing against him, _inside_ of him, his identity tags crushed between their heaving chests, every moment of pain and yearning and uncertainty eclipsed by parted lips and plunging tongues, two hearts beating together as one. 

Blake leans his weight onto one arm so he can reach his hand between their bodies. A violent shudder wracks Will’s body as a loose fist closes around his throbbing length for a slow, sweet pull. “Does that feel nice?”

“Yeah—yes—” Will can only gasp his pleasure as his mind crackles around the edges like paper engulfed in flames. Blake’s bliss-filled gasps are hot on his face as he draws himself out and slowly sinks back in, working his hand at the same leisurely pace, body shaking, his ardent adoration for Blake growing stronger and more all-consuming by the minute. He bites his lip until it bleeds, working to contain a sea of things he’s not yet said, but there’s only so much Will can do against a force like his love for Blake, and he’s letting out desperate little noises before he knows what he’s doing. 

Perfect as he is, perceptive as he is, Blake slows his movements. “What is it, love?”

Will shakes his head and averts his eyes. 

Blake kisses his temple. “Talk to me.”

“It’s just...it’s so good. It’s _so_ good, I…” Slightly manic, Will whispers, “Harder, please, fuck me harder.”

Blake capitulates, mouth opening in ecstasy. “Like that, baby? Like that?”

“Yeah--just like that, just like that.” The filter between Will’s mind and his mouth disintegrates as that maddening orgasmic flame fans in his gut and flushes his face. “Fuck. Fuck, Blake, it’s like you...like you’re a part of me, like I wasn’t whole until now, I...I never thought it could be like this, that it could feel like this, and you’re here, with me, it’s you--”

“Oh, God, I know baby, I know.” Blake mouths at the sweat on Will’s jaw. “It feels so good to be so close to you, Sco, so good, I love being with you, being inside of you.”

Will’s head lolls against the pillow as he arches his back, letting out a groan as Blake’s tongue slides honey-slow down the column of his throat. “I never knew it could be like this, I never knew, Blake, I never knew...Never thought you’d want me like--that you’d love me—oh, God—”

“Oh, Sco, I do, I do want you. I love you, I love you so much.” Blake slides his hands into Will’s hair, cradling his head as he kisses him deeply, every pass of his tongue and roll of his hips driving out the darkness, the fear. The tears fall before Will can stop them, sliding down his cheeks as he kisses Blake back, pulling him closer, his body a tangible reminder of the life that he could have so easily lost, the heartbeat that could have so easily been silenced.

Blake pulls away to breathe, caressing a thumb over Will’s jawline, over his lips, which part of their own volition. He sucks Blake into his mouth, bites down a bit. At the display of unadulterated lust on Blake’s face, he sucks it deeper, saliva flooding his mouth at the taste of his skin, and the wicked sensation of being penetrated by Blake in two places at once.

“Jesus, Sco, oh, fuck.” Blake‘s staring hazily at his thumb sliding between Will’s lips, face and chest flushed a gorgeous cherry red. “You’re gonna make me...oh, God, I’m not gonna last if you keep this up.”

“S’alright,” slurs Will around his finger. Blake moans and shifts his weight, and Will’s vision tunnels as Blake hits that sinful spot inside him with each long, rapturous stroke.

He’s close then, so close, sweat dripping from every pore as he bucks up to meet each one of Blake’s thrusts, prick smearing sticky-sweet against the lovely swell of Blake’s belly as he fucks himself, chasing his release.

“Fuck.” Blake’s eyelids flutter. “I want to make you come, baby, want to see you come.”

“I’m--I’m close.” Will’s sweat-slick thighs slide against Blake’s torso, the excruciating heat of his impending orgasm burning him from the inside. “Blake, Blake, come, come inside me, make me yours, please, fuck--”

“Oh, God, yes, fuck yes, my love.” Blake’s gaze burns as he picks up the speed of his hips, then he’s crying out, face contorting in bliss as his hips stutter and he releases, hot and wet and filthy and gorgeous, deep inside Will. 

“Sco,” he pants in his ear, exultant, hips rolling sweetly. “Let go, sweetheart, let go, come for me.”

Will’s body allows him an infinitesimal moment of exquisite delirium at the peak, enough time for him to let out a few harsh gasps of _Blake, Blake_ before he’s biting down on Blake’s ID tags and submitting himself to soul-shattering, glorious waves and waves of ecstasy. Blake holds him tight and fucks him through it as his come slicks their bellies and his tears mingle with the sweat of passion, sending him spiraling high, far away from treacherous rivers, from the scent of blood, the hopeless horrors of war, fucking him closer to what he imagines must be God.

Blake eases him down from his powerful high with dry kisses to his cheeks and neck. “I love you, Sco, God, you’re amazing, I love you so much.”

Will exhales harshly as his eyelids flutter open. Blake’s looking down at him, face open, propped up on an elbow to avoid resting his entire weight on him. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah.” Will takes Blake’s face in his hands for a deep, slow kiss. They pull apart, panting, and Blake smiles tiredly.

“That was…”

Wills face heats. “It was.”

“Did you...like it?”

Will looks down where their bodies are splattered with the evidence of his pleasure. “Yes, I would say so.”

“Okay good, because I think I’ve officially found my favourite activity in the entire world.” With a breathy laugh, Blake kisses him again. “I’m going to pull out now, alright?”

Will nods, wincing at the loss. There’s something overwhelming and primal about the feeling of Blake’s release trickling out of his body, onto their sweat-soaked sheets, and Will feels it in his chest and in his gut.

Blake leaves the room for a moment, only to return with flannels and a glass of water. He swipes the come from Will’s stomach before returning to his place beside him. “Feeling any better?”

Will nods. “Yeah. I just...well, you know.”

“I do.” Blake’s hand finds Will’s. “But if you want to talk about it.”

Will threads their fingers together over his chest. “There’s still so much that I don’t know how to say to you.” He frowns. “Not sure that came out the way I wanted it to, but. I don’t...it’s just…”

“You don’t have to say anything you’re not ready to say.” Blake props himself up on an elbow and kisses his forehead. “We’ve got time.”

Will’s voice breaks a little. “But we didn’t always.”

Regret washes over Blake’s face. “No, no we didn’t.” 

Suddenly, Will’s stricken by the letters in the dresser, kept company by Blake’s ring. He’s been meaning to reveal the ring to Blake for some time now, but no time had seemed quite right. Now might be the closest thing to an opportune moment he will receive. “There’s something I’d like to show you.”

“Oh?”

“You have to promise not to be upset with me.”

Dark eyebrows knit together “I can’t really do that without knowing what it is, but…at this point, you’d have to make quite an effort to upset me, Sco.”

It’s Will’s turn to get out of bed now, unsure if he should pull on his drawers, or embrace the extra vulnerability. His heart hammers as his hands sift through the contents of the top dresser drawer until they land on the small envelope he’s kept hidden away from prying eyes for years. 

He sinks back into bed, drawing a sheet over his lap as he opens the envelope in front of Blake and shakes the gold ring into his palm, the one he’d kept on that horrible day back in 1917, the day when he didn’t know if he’d ever see Blake in this life again. 

He stares down at it, mind racing. “I’m not sure where to begin, or….what even I ought to say,” he starts, breathing hard through his nose. “I gave your tags to your brother, along with one of your rings, as you know. But there was a second ring, the ring from your middle finger. I don’t know what possessed me, but I...I kept it.”

Blake’s lips fall open. Will continues before Blake can say anything, “ I shouldn’t have done, but at the time, it...I wasn’t thinking clearly, you see, and at the last minute, I couldn’t bear...I couldn’t…”

A warm hand cups his face. Blake’s eyes are painfully soft. Will offers him the ring. “I’ve had it, all this time, all along. I shouldn’t have kept my mouth shut about it for as long as I did, but--”

Blake steals the words from his mouth with a gentle kiss. He pulls away, smiling, bemused, and takes the ring. He turns Will’s hand and slides it onto his pinky finger, snorting when it doesn’t make it past the second knuckle. “Well, your hands are quite a bit bigger than mine, but I reckon you were meant to have this one.”

Stunned, Will looks at the ring on his pinky. Blake’s ring, given to him freely.

“Why on earth would I be upset with you?” Blake brushes their noses together. "I’m so glad you had it all this time. I’m so glad it wasn’t lost.”

“Really?”

“Yes, love. I thought it was done for, I did, I thought it was lost. But this is...you had it all along! Did you think of me, when you had it?”

“Of course.”

“Where did you keep it?”

“The innermost...the innermost pocket, in my jacket.” Will furrows his brow. “Aren’t you upset that I didn’t give it to your family? Could have brought them comfort.”

Blake presses their foreheads together with a chuckle. “What brought them comfort, quickly followed by loads of irritation, was me, alive and relatively well, home from the war. You did that. The rings and the tags made no difference to them. You were right, back then, about the medals, the trinkets. None of it means shit without...without.”

“I’m not sure about that.” A lump forms in Will’s throat. “You should take it back, though. It...it will never fit.”

“Here.” Blake pulls his identity tags overhead, slips the ring from Will’s finger, and strings it onto the chain. “You can wear it round a chain, for now. If you’d like.”

When he’s met by gawking and silence, he continues, “Unless you really don’t want it…”

“No! I do. Just...as long as you’re sure.”

“When it comes to you? Yeah, I’d say I’m sure.” Blake delicately places the chain around Will’s neck, jingling the contents with a finger. “See that? It suits you.” 

Something’s tight and barely restrained in Will’s chest. He didn’t know what he’d expected, but yet again, Blake’s managed to surpass it in just about every way. “You reckon?”

“I do.” Blake leans down and kisses him once more. Within moments, Will’s rolling onto his stomach, hitching a leg up so Blake can have him again. Their bodies stay flush throughout, one of Blake’s hands cradling Will’s jaw, gently turning his head so he can kiss the moans and gasps from his mouth as he takes him from behind, slow and deep.

As they lie beside one another, dripping sweat and breathing hard in the wake of a second round of vigorous lovemaking, Blake covers the tags and ring with his hand, anchoring the heated metal to Will’s heart until they fall asleep.

In the interest of ripping off the bandage, Will decides to pay Charlotte a visit once Blake leaves for work in the morning. Thankfully, it’s his day off, and he knows that his sister will be home from market by the time he arrives. Blake had tried to insist that he wait so he could come along, which Will appreciates more than he can say, but this specific thing is something best worked out on his own. Blake will understand.

As he raises his hand to rap on the heavy walnut door, he hesitates. His nerves have never threatened to get the better of him like this, not here, not in this context, and for a moment, he wonders if this will be the last time his presence in his sister’s home will be welcome. It’s a useless thought, but it makes his heart constrict all the same. He inhales deeply and closes his eyes, picturing Blake. The near-constant rosiness in his cheeks, the endearing weight gain around his middle, the crystal-blue of his eyes. There’d be a crease in his brow if he were here, and he’d probably tell Will to go on and knock already. 

Will smiles, exhales, and knocks already.

His nieces swarm him, delighted at the turn their morning has taken. He crouches down to give them kisses, lingering there as he hopes beyond hope that this won’t be the last time he’s able to do this.

“Oh. Will.” Charlotte’s standing behind the girls in a flour-dusted apron, hair out of place, clearly amidst a baking project. She’s looking at him like she’s not surprised at his visit. “Come in, I’ve just put the kettle on.”

Once the girls and Robbie are settled with some toys in the next room, Will sits at the little table in the kitchen while Charlotte fusses with the kettle for a few long, quiet moments, greatly contrasting the pandemonium ravaging Will’s mind. Robert must have said something, she _must_ know--but if she knows, why hasn’t she said something? That’s an irrational expectation, the onus is on him to open the conversation. And he has done, many times, in his head, all morning long, the entire way over, but now that he’s actually here, face to face with her, he’s not sure where to start. 

The added stressor of every possible, horrifying outcome projecting itself across his mind’s eye like some kind of nightmarish cave allegory isn’t helping, either. 

After a small eternity, Charlotte sets their teacups on the table and takes a seat. She inhales deeply as she stirs a splash of cream into her cup. “So.”

The coppery taste of blood hits Will’s tongue. He stops chewing the insides of his cheeks. “Right. The reason for my visit. Charlotte, I don’t know where to begin.”

Charlotte frowns, glances down, then meets his gaze with a softness in her eyes that Will was not wholly prepared to see. “You want to tell me about...Tom? About you, and Tom?”

Will’s heart is in his throat, hammering away. Instead of choking on it, he holds eye contact and says, loud and clear, “Yes. Me and Tom. We are...Tom and I are together.”

The statement is strange in his mouth, but not unpleasant, like a new wine or an exotic fruit. Will’s breath evens out as a small smile plays on his lips. He straightens in his chair and nods. “We are together. I am _with_ Tom. I’m not...I’m not interested in women. I’m just interested in being with Tom. I know it’s...I know it’s unusual, I know it’s not...not legal, but, it’s the truth. And I am not ashamed.”

A myriad of emotions plays across Charlotte’s face. “You...love him?”

“I do.”

Her eyes close as a line forms between her eyebrows. “Oh, Will.”

A wave of nausea cascades over him, destroying his briefly gained confidence like doldrums knocking the wind from a ship’s sails. _Fuck._ He knew this was too good to be true. He runs his hands through his hair, bile rising as he thinks of the last dinner they’d had together, the way the girls’ hugs had felt at the door, trying to preserve every memory as vividly as possible with the knowledge that they were not likely to be recreated. 

“Hey, no.” A gentle touch on his forearm pulls him back to the present. “It’s not...it’s not a problem, Will. Not here. Not with me, or Robert.”

He blinks. “It’s...not a problem?” 

“No.” She stands, removes her soiled apron, and walks around to lay a careful hand on the back of Will’s chair. With a long inhale, she continues, “I know you don’t like to talk about it, and I can’t blame you for it, and I’m sorry for bringing it up, but...there was a time when you went away, to the front lines, and I wasn’t sure if...God, I hate saying it even now. I wasn’t sure if you’d come back to me, to us, at all, Will. Those were hard and dangerous times for many reasons, but mostly because of that--not a day went by that I didn’t think of you, that we didn’t think of you here. God, Will, I could have lost you, too, really lost you, and so soon after everything with Mum, I…”

A wet sniffle draws Will’s gaze up to her face. A pang of sorrow hits his chest at the sight of his eldest sister’s lower lip wobbling, blue eyes bright with tears. She brings a hand up to cover her mouth and looks away. “I could have really lost you, and I was lucky enough to have you returned to me. I was luckier than most, and that’s something that shouldn’t be taken for granted. So just know that there’s nothing, _nothing_ that you could say or do that would compel me to oust you from my life, not ever, and especially not after everything we’ve been through. I _told_ you you could tell me anything, and I bloody well meant it. I don’t mind this, that you’re...I don’t mind.”

Momentarily paralyzed, Will’s mouth falls open. “It doesn’t...you don’t..?”

She gives him a wan smile and wipes her eyes on the back of her hand, then shakes her head. Will’s shoulders slump as the tension rushes from him, deflating him like a balloon. He leans forward to rest his head against her stomach, letting her fold him into a hug. 

“I can’t say I understand it,” she says softly, holding him close. “But there’s a lot in this world that I don’t understand, and...in my eyes, love is a gift, you shouldn’t toss it aside.”

Will sighs at the sentiment. “I agree, very much. But you don’t seem surprised. How long have you known?”

“I’ve suspected for a little while, but I wasn’t sure until that night at the fair.” Charlotte gives him a misty-eyed smile. “The way Tom was looking at you...and you were looking at him? There was no other explanation.”

Of course. Tom and his bloody gorgeous, open face. “So it’s terribly obvious.”

“I wouldn’t say it’s obvious. I just know my little brother.” She sighs, rubs his shoulder. “That, and, well, Robert came home last night looking like he’d seen Grandmother’s ghost in the attic, and I sort of forced it out of him.”

Of _course._ Will’s lips tighten together, but Charlotte shakes her head and says, “Don’t be too upset with him. You know how persuasive I can be.”

He barks out a laugh, which turns quickly into a sob, much to his chagrin. Before he knows it, he’s sobbing out his relief against her belly as she runs soothing hands over his hair, just like their mum used to do when he was a child, as everything he’s kept locked away inside is brought to the light like a cursed, long-buried treasure chest. 

“It’s going to be hard for the both of you, this.” Charlotte holds him tighter. “But none of that hardship will come from me, from us. Honestly, I’m a bit disappointed in myself for not clocking it sooner, but...here we are. And I just can’t have you thinking you’d be unwelcome in my home for any reason, especially not...that. And Tom...well, I think you already know that we love Tom. He’s already part of the family.”

This just makes Will cry harder, as mortifying as it is, but there’s only so much he can do in the face of his worst fears evaporating before his eyes, giving way to a better outcome than he ever could have fathomed. 

“Shh. Shh.” Charlotte rubs his back. “You have nothing to worry about here, you can...you can be yourself.”

“Thank you,” he murmurs, tears spilling uncontrollably from his eyes, so grateful he forgets to be embarrassed. Now that Charlotte’s soothing him, accepting him, Will wonders why he ever doubted her in the first place--he should have known all along that this would have been her reaction, Robert’s too. As an added measure, he silently thanks whoever might be listening for blessing him with this support.

“I’m here for you.” She leans down and kisses the top of his head. “Now let’s get to that tea before it goes cold. And if you’re staying a bit, you can try some of this zucchini bread. I think I’ve finally got the recipe down.”

When Blake returns home from work that night, Will greets him with a chicken dinner and a bottle of Pinot noir. He waits until Blake’s about halfway through his second helping to break the news that he went to Charlotte’s on his own that morning. 

“What did you do that for?” Blake sets his sweet jaw in a stubborn jut. “I was going to come with you. I was going to have your back!”

“I know, and I appreciate that, but I had to do this on my own.” Will reaches across the table to take Blake’s hand. “It turned out alright. She took it better than I expected. Honestly, it still doesn’t quite feel real, but, she’s of the same mind as Robert.”

Blake’s face lights up. “She’s...it’s alright, then? You and me? We don’t have to skip town?”

“Quite the opposite. She rather insisted we keep our weekly dinners, and she says that when we come over, we can be ourselves.”

“Fuck me!” Blake’s grin is effervescent. “Your family is incredible! Then again, I can’t say I’m all that surprised.”

“That makes one of us.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Blake turns his palm over and intertwines their fingers. “They’re related to you, how could they not be incredible?”

“Stop,” laughs Will, but Blake is already getting to his feet. He bends down to kiss Will, hard, mouth tasting of meat and wine and a frenzied elation that can’t be faked. Will wipes his hands with his napkin before cupping Blake’s face and kissing him back, shoulders unburdened, mind right, so light he could float away.

“I have to say something.” Blake’s eyelids flutter as he rubs their noses together. “You’re going to say it’s maudlin, but I couldn’t care less.”

“Go on, then.”

“I’m glad that things went the way they did today. Transported, honestly. But I do need you to know that, if it had gone the other way…” Blake stops, swallows. “I love you, more than I can say, and nothing will change that. Ever. And I promise that I’ll never go another day without telling you that. No matter what. So… there it is. I love you, and I’m yours until you decide you don’t want me anymore.”

Blake dips his fingers into Will’s collar and pulls out the chain from its resting place against Will’s heart. “And let this be your reminder, if you ever forget that, and I’m not here to tell you…” With a radiant smile, he winds the chain between two fingers, almost absently, and leans in to press a kiss to Will’s lips. When he pulls back, there’s a lovely rose tinge on his cheeks. “At least, until I get you a ring that fits.”

Will laughs breathily, kiss-drunk, mind working about three seconds slower than it should. Once he’s finally processed Blake’s words, his eyes widen. “A ring that fits?”

“Now I’ve gone and said too much.” Blake looks away, bashful. “Sorry if that was a bit intense.”

“No, I...I quite like the sound of that.” 

“You do?”

“I do.” He takes Blake’s hands in his own and presses his lips to his knuckles, overcome. “Very maudlin indeed,” he says with a smile.

Blake swats at him with a scoff before returning to his seat. “Prick.” 

“You love me.”

“God help me, I do.” 

“And I love you.” Will raises his glass, blushing profusely, overjoyed, incandescent with his love for Blake. “Here’s to us.”

Blake’s looking at him with such a deep fondness that Will’s stomach flips. He raises his glass. “To us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with me through long intervals between chapters as life continues to do its thing. I really hope you enjoyed chapter 6--I am so looking forward to your thoughts and feels, drop me a comment to sustain my poor wayfaring soul!
> 
> As it comes to a close, I want to sincerely thank everyone who's been following this story and commenting--your enthusiasm and reactions give me life. This fic means so much to me and it has been an absolute delight to write it and share it with you. Seriously, thank you!
> 
> Next up is the epilogue! <3


End file.
